


A City Sorrow Built

by othersideofthis (hikaru)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff and Mike find each other in every lifetime, and in every lifetime, they get it wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1691

**Author's Note:**

> Please go listen to the absolutely amazing mix that [folignos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos) made for me! [Right here!](http://8tracks.com/jjaybs/heaven-and-hell-and-everything-in-between) I spent a lot of time listening to this as I wrote and I can assure you that it is perfect. 
> 
> With thanks to:
> 
> ionthesparrow, for making this story better, and for telling me to make it worse;  
> engine, for letting me tell her the most horrible story ideas and still being my friend anyway;  
> and everyone on twitter, tumblr, or a few occasions, in real life, who allowed me to yell at them about this fic
> 
> While there is the warning on here for character death -- not to spoil my own story, but a) nothing is described in detail and b) I promise you I fix everything by the fourth chapter.
> 
> You will note that there are two of four chapters posted. The other two are coming -- each chapter can be read as a stand-alone story, and can technically be read independently of one another.

**_1691, Salem Village, Province of Massachusetts Bay_ **

 

Michael would admit it to few enough people, but he finds the solitude of his work to be soothing. When he’s out in the yard, it’s usually just Michael and his tools. No conversation, no controversy, no bother. Just Michael and some pine boards, a saw, an awl, a hammer.

After all, it is his father’s name is carved into the shingle hung from the front of their family home -- _Abraham Richards, Carpenter_ \-- and the inside of the building is still his father’s domain. Drawing up plans for new buildings, sharing a meal with the village elders, negotiating for a better price: that is the world of his father, and a world that Michael is largely excluded from.

For now, Michael works on simple requests -- a rocking chair for Goody Parker and her new baby; new moldings for the house the Bishops are building; barrels for the tavern on the outskirts of town -- and contents himself with honing his craft.

He builds in silence, perhaps whispering a word or two to the boards spread out before him -- “fit, here,” he says to one piece, “like so, you see,” as he works it into place.

But today, Michael cannot be spared from his father’s idea of conversation, the one thing he wishes most the yard could save him from.

“I’ve just come from the town square,” Abraham says as he barges into the yard, startling Michael from his work. “Another three girls have begun to have fits, have you heard?”

Michael looks up at his father. “Of course,” he says. “I cannot go anywhere in town without hearing about their fits, as you well know.”

Abraham lingers at Michael’s workbench, flipping through a stack of sketches for new projects that Michael’s left out. “The reverend suspects it’s witchcraft.” Abraham crinkles and bends the drawings as he moves them about on the table; Michael grits his teeth and watches his work get cast aside. “All three of them had incidents with that Turner girl, and now, they’re so fragile that he fears their souls may be lost.”

Michael tries to suppress a snort. He’s been hearing his father talk about the evils of witchcraft for months now, but Michael just can’t find a reason to believe that the Turner girl, or any of the other names that get passed the village by hushed voices, are in league with the Devil. “Perhaps they’re just ill,” Michael mutters. He crosses the yard to the workbench and snatches up most of his drawings, saving them from his father’s mistreatment. “Has the physician been to see them?”

“Of course Barwell has visited.” Abraham watches as Michael hugs the drawings to his chest. “His own daughter has been afflicted, as you know.”

“They say she’s been mute for weeks.” Everywhere Michael goes in town, someone talks about the strange case of Felicity Barwell. He’s heard all the details of her illness -- and it’s an illness, Michael believes, not the Devil like his father insists.

“Yes, right after she argued with that Carter fellow, the one from over the hill.” Abraham scowls, like the mere mention of Carter’s name has ruined his day. “Barwell says--”

“I know,” Michael interrupts. “I have heard. Everyone has heard. Goodman Barwell says Carter cursed Felicity, and she hasn’t been the same since. I am sure she is ill, but witchcraft?” Michael shakes his head. “Superstition, nothing more.”

Abraham looks disgusted. “Superstition? That is close to blasphemy, you know. You should be careful, Michael. People like Hannah Turner, Jeffrey Carter -- there’s something wrong with them, something dark. And the reverend says that someone of your character is apt to be a target of the Devil’s.” Abraham pushes the rest of Michael’s papers across the workbench, crumpling the last of them up as he heads towards the house. “Stop wasting your time on these designs,” he adds. “Didn’t I ask you to finish the shingles for the new roof?”

Michael watches as his careful sketches fall to the dirt. “You did,” he says.

“Then see to it.” Abraham waves dismissively at Michael. “Get back to work.”

*

Every day, Michael works in the yard, and every day, the villagers are content to pass him by. Michael doesn’t mind; most people who seek him out have similar complaints against Michael’s character as his father does. If a solitary life of work saves him from one more subtle hint about his damnation, then so be it.

So when someone does, in fact, address him, he finds himself taken aback.

“What’s it going to be?” calls a distant voice, and Michael looks up to see who’s there. There’s a man just at the edge of the yard, clad in roughspun clothing. He looks familiar, though Michael can’t quite place him from that distance.

Michael sets down his hammer and tips his hat back, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. “Chest of drawers,” he says. Michael raps his knuckles on the dovetailed corner of the drawer -- it’s not his finest work, and perhaps he’ll try to fix it later.

“Do you sell your wares, Carpenter Richards?” The man doesn’t step any closer, cautious to keep his toes just at the edge of Michael’s fence.

“After a fashion.” Michael peers at the man. It takes a few moments, but Michael soon recognizes him as the Carter fellow, the one everyone whispers about. “It depends what you want made. For most people, I would say they needed to talk to my father. For you...” Michael looks back at the house, then at Carter. “For you, I would suggest you deal directly with me.”

Carter shakes one hand loose from his cloak and curls his fingers around the fencepost. “I’m not especially looking to buy anything right now. But, if I am, someday…” His words trail off as he looks back over his shoulder, down the path towards town.

“Well, now or in the future, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.” Michael nears the fence. Carter’s tall, reedy, like a strong wind could blow him over. Michael remembers seeing him a few times before in the village proper, usually in the apothecary: arguing over the use of this root or that herb, with ink-stained fingers and obvious patches in his cloak and shadows about his eyes.

He’s the sort of person that the elders in the village whisper about.

“You’re Carter, aren’t you?” Michael asks. “From up on the hill. I’ve heard things about you.”

Carter raises an eyebrow. His fingers tense in their grip around the fencepost. “My reputation precedes me, even here?” With his free hand, Carter reaches up to tuck a lock of blonde hair back behind his ear.

Michael’s hand goes up to touch at his own hair, like a reflex. “Your reputation precedes you, yes, but.” He looks back over his shoulder for any signs of his father, then faces Carter again and crosses his arms over his chest. “I didn’t say that it mattered.”

“Perhaps I’ve already heard that about you.”

Michael shifts his weight from foot to foot. “And what else have you heard?”

Carter’s lips twist into a wry smile, though his face remains shadowed underneath the wide brim of his hat. “Everyone has secrets, Goodman Richards. That will be mine, for now.”

Michael wonders if that’s supposed to sound like a threat. His father would probably say yes, but Michael doesn’t particularly care for his father’s opinion on the merits of others.”Well,” he says after some thought. “You keep your secrets, Goodman Carter, and I’ll keep mine.”

Carter interrupts him with a laugh. “Please. Jeffrey is enough. You already mark me to be a better man than I am,” he says. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s attempted to flatter me like that.”

Michael shrugs. “Who am I to judge?”

Jeffrey smiles, but there’s an edge to his expression, something hard in his eyes that keeps Michael’s attention. “I could provide you a list of names on who here sees fit to judge. I am pleased that perhaps you truly are not one of them.” He takes a step back from the fence, then another. “I’ll visit again, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s no trouble at all. See that you do.” Michael nods at him as he retreats with a wave.

The further away Jeffrey gets, the colder Michael feels, like all the warmth has been sucked from the air, and Michael rubs absently at his forearms as Jeffrey goes.

*

Even as spring turns to fall, Michael continues to work outside, away from his father’s constant mutterings about the evil that is befalling Salem.

Michael realizes he has a observer, though: Jeffrey Carter, always lurking on the periphery of the Richards’ property.

He doesn’t come down every day, but Michael acknowledges him when he does, pressing his fingers to the brim of his hat when they meet each other’s gaze.

Jeffrey lifts his hand in a wave, then recedes back into the shadows.

But as time goes on, Jeffrey comes closer, stays longer. Sometimes he even talks.

“Shouldn’t you be with the others?” Jeffrey asks Michael as he takes up his usual spot against the fence. “They’re putting up the frames for the Sibley house today, aren’t they?”

Michael kicks some wood shavings under his workbench, then walks over to meet Jeffrey at the fence. “That’s my father’s craft, not mine. I do the small work. I’m not called on for the important projects, not like he is.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his own voice. “I’d wanted to work with him since before I could lift the tools, and yet I’m not even permitted to give directions to the apprentice.”

“Why?” The look on Jeffrey’s face is sincere, rather than the strange, blank expression he usually wears. “All this time I’ve watched you, you seem skilled enough to do more than just build drawers.”

Michael grinds the tip of his awl into a whorl in the fence post. “Father preferred my older brother. Christian was to take the business when father was prepared to part with it. Christian was raised to be the mind for those projects. I was only ever to make small things and stay out of the way.”

Jeffrey reaches out and stills Michael’s hand. “And where is Christian now?”

“In the grave, four years past,” Michael says quietly. His gaze stays on his hand, with Jeffrey’s cold fingers light on his skin. “Christian is gone, along with my mother. My father has only me now and he is not inclined to allow either of us to forget that.”

A dark look curls across Jeffrey’s face. Michael feels a chill roll up his spine. “Well, someday, the business will still fall to you, for you to do with as you will, and you will show him that he is wrong.”

“You are kind,” Michael says, “but I am afraid you do not know my father.”

Jeffrey’s fingers slide down to circle Michael’s wrist, his grip surprisingly tight. “Your father does not know what he’s missing. He is wrong, and he shall be made to see that someday.”

Jeffrey’s voice is low and dangerous and Michael is reminded of the rumors his father tells him about, the whispers of a black mark over Jeffrey’s soul. “You are kind,” Michael repeats before extracting his wrist from Jeffrey’s grip. “But all is well, I assure you. I will come to peace with my father’s choices in due time.”

Jeffrey flexes his fingers. Without thinking, Michael finds himself mimicking the action. “All is well,” Jeffrey repeats, “if you do say.”

“I do.” Michael folds his arms over his chest. His fingers run over the spot where Jeffrey’s fingers had landed on his wrist and shivers. “All is well, you will see.”

*

Jeffrey never asks to come in. He never sets a toe inside of the Richards’ yard. He never even asks for anything. When he lingers to talk with Michael, he only curls a pale hand around the fence, nothing more, and Michael has tired of it.

“Instead of standing about idle, perhaps you could find it within yourself to assist me,” Michael points out. It’s cold enough now that he can see his breath hang in the air as he speaks, but Michael’s still only in his shirtsleeves.

Jeffrey shakes his head. “I know nothing of your craft,” he says. “I would only be a hindrance.”

“I can teach you some, if you want,” Michael says after some thought. “And if you’d rather not, at least the company would be a welcome change.” He goes to the gate and opens it; Jeffrey’s eyes track the movement, then flick up to Michael’s face.

“Truly?”

Michael shrugs. “It’s no trouble to me.” He gestures at the yard. “Come in, stop standing about.”

Jeffrey inhales as if to speak, but lets the breath back out. His first step through the gate is tentative, but Michael waves him in. “People are going to talk if they keep catching you skulking about like this. It’s better to be useful.”

“People already talk. They will talk more now,” Jeffrey says. He lets his fingers run over the curve of a barrel and watches Michael from the corner of his eye.

Michael knows why people talk about Jeffrey; just last week, Michael heard that Jeffrey started an argument with the hired girl at the public house, who shouted dark oaths at him for everyone to hear. People in the village whisper about Jeffrey and his reclusive habits, and lately, they worry that he harbors the kind of darkness that could infect them all.

“Let them,” Michael says. “I know the rumors and I say let them talk. Now hand me that hammer.”

Jeffrey hesitates for a moment, then reaches for the hammer and gives it to Michael. “What are you making?”

“The Hobbs woman is with child and wishes for a chair to rock in.” Michael smooths his hand over the decorative carvings in the back of the chair. He’s etched out the beginnings of the Hobbs family crest, delicate leaves scrolling behind the coat of arms. It’s too much, it’s too intricate, his father would tell him, but as long as Michael is to keep himself busy with this sort of work, he’s going to make it look meaningful. “Her own family doesn’t have one to pass down, so I’m making her a new one.”

“A tradition,” Jeffrey says. He runs his fingers along the curve of the carved leaves, then sets his hand next to Michael’s, letting their fingers brush together. “How can I help?”

Michael smiles and steps back from the chair, then pats the space next to him on the workbench. Someone is sure to see them as they work in the open and Michael finds that he does not care. “Come, join me, Goodman Carter, and we’ll make a respectable assistant of you.”

*

Michael is well aware that, more often than not, his father is content to ignore him. The looks that he levels at him all evening, though, say that there is something on his mind. Michael’s tense as Abraham watches him shrewdly throughout dinner. Michael can feel his father’s tirade coming, boiling just under the surface, and he’s tempted to abandon dinner entirely to avoid it.

It takes hardly any time at all before his father can no longer hold his tongue. “You’ve taken on the Carter fellow as an apprentice?” Abraham asks over dinner. His tone is sour, though Michael doesn’t know if it’s Carter or the presumed apprenticeship that his father objects to most.

“He’s just visiting. He’s not an apprentice,” Michael clarifies. “I’m not fit to pass on the trade, you’ve told me yourself.”

“Indeed, you are not.” Abraham makes no effort to even hide his disdain. “You are to do what I require of you, and no more. Whatever Carter is for you -- is he a helper? You do not need help. And yet you bring him here to my shop, to presume to learn _my_ trade? You know what they say about him. There’s something dark about his soul, and you’ve seen fit to have him here in my house?”

Michael wants to argue that point: Jeffrey’s never been beyond the yard, and still appears uneasy at that. “If what they say is true, then is it not better to teach him a trade, keep his hands from idling, and hope the darkness eases?” Michael frowns and pushes his plate away before his father can respond. He realizes that this is an argument he will not win, and he has no appetite to try his luck. “I find that I am suddenly quite tired. I will retire to my room. If you’ll excuse me, father.”

Michael doesn’t wait for a response. Whatever his father has to say will fall on deaf ears.

*

Jeffrey comes to the yard nearly every day, and Michael is determined to get him to talk. Michael often finds the company of others to be grating, but from the very start, Jeffrey’s been different. Jeffrey is quiet, true, but he is kind to Michael. And when Michael’s only other regular companionship comes in the form of his father, Jeffrey’s mild curiosity about Michael’s work means more than he thought possible. The rumors of Jeffrey’s association with the Devil don’t match the quiet man who joins Michael in the yard, and he wants to understand why.

“Tell me a story,” Michael says as he works at sketching out his idea for a new wagon to build. “Tell me how you came to live on the hill by yourself.”

Jeffrey sets down the knife he’s been sharpening and turns to Michael. “I’m afraid it’s not very interesting,” he says as he approaches the makeshift table that Michael sits at.

“I know.” Michael glances up. “But I would very much like it if you were to share.”

Jeffrey spreads his hands flat on the tabletop and watches Michael “My father was lost at sea some years back,” Jeffrey says as he slides onto the bench next to Michael. “My mother remarried a man with no trade and little prospects, and we moved from town to town after him.” Jeffrey’s arm settles behind Michael’s back as he leans in to watch Michael draw. “I went along as we moved because I had no other family to call my own. And now my sisters have married and my mother is dead and buried six years past and the land is mine and mine alone.”

“As for your mother’s second husband?”

Jeffrey pulls his lower lip between his teeth and hesitates before he answers. “Gone, after mother took ill, I know not where.” He looks away from Michael for the first time since they started talking. Michael finds that he does not like it in the slightest; he likes the way he feels when Jeffrey watches him, when Jeffrey is near, and Michael wants to keep him there.

“And so you are all alone in your house on the hill?” Jeffrey nods; Michael watches the rise and fall of his shoulders as he does. “You should be married by now, should you not?” Michael tucks a curl of hair behind his ear and looks up at Jeffrey.

“Yes,” Jeffrey admits, “but I have no interest. I have nothing to pass down, I have no money, no other lands. Why bother?”

“Someone to bear your children, run your household?” With Michael himself still unmarried, despite his father’s urging, he knows the question likely sounds hollow.

Jeffrey laughs at that, only it sounds bitter, grating, for once. “That seems unlikely,” he says. “You truly do not listen to rumors, do you?”

Michael’s fingers fall to Jeffrey’s arm, keeping him close. “Not about you, no.”

“Perhaps you should.” Jeffrey looks down at Michael’s hand. “It would be safer for you, for your reputation.”

“Perhaps _you_ should listen to rumors,” Michael says as he grips tightly to Jeffrey’s arm, “if you think that my reputation is so spotless.” Michael knows what people say about him. He hears the rumors -- about his brother’s death, his father’s disdain, his own steadfast disinterest in taking a wife -- and chooses to ignore them.

Jeffrey raises an eyebrow and looks ready to speak, but Michael cuts him off quickly. “And so I’ll hear no more of that,” Michael says. “People say what they will, but you well know that I take no stock in the whispers that pass through Salem.”

For a very long moment, Jeffrey is quiet. A look crosses his face, something softening in his eyes, before he nods. “For that I am glad,” he says finally, patting Michael’s hand. “Now, let us talk no more of the past. Show me your drawings.” He reaches up with his free hand to pull Michael’s drawings closer -- a distraction, Michael knows full well.

But still, Michael doesn’t resist. He leaves his hand tucked in the crook of Jeffrey’s elbow as he leans over the drawings to explain his plan.

*

It’s not until the first snowfall that Michael properly invites Jeffrey inside. “Come along,” Michael says when Jeffrey arrives at the gate. “It is too cold, even under the shelter. Bring those boxes, we are moving inside today.”

Jeffrey hesitates, one foot in the yard. “Are you certain?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Yes, Jeffrey.”

“And your father?” Jeffrey stoops to scoop up the box of tools.

Michael gathers up the drawings he’d been working on. “You know my answer to that.” He heads for the door and beckons after Jeffrey. “This is my home as much as his, and you have a place here.”

Jeffrey pauses, refraining from following Michael over the threshold into the house. “You shouldn’t speak like that,” he says quietly. “I know you say it matters not what people think, but.someday, they will come for me, and you as well, if you persist.”

Michael tosses his drawings onto a table and turns back to regard Jeffrey for a long moment. “Persist in what? In being your friend?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jeffrey says. “You hear what they say of me. There are those who say the Devil himself lives inside of me, have you not heard?”

Michael frowns. “I have heard, but I _know_ you are not the Devil.”

Jeffrey stoops to set the box aside, just inside the door. “And how do you know, exactly?”

That’s not the reaction Michael was expecting. “Because if there even is a Devil, he is not spending his time carrying tools for the carpenter’s son,” Michael reasons. “And because I refuse to believe that these rumors are anything other than sheer folly.”

Michael has other reasons for wanting to believe that Jeffrey is _good_ , though he is not brave enough to say them aloud. The careful way Jeffrey watches Michael as they work; the way that Jeffrey smiles at him, like happiness is a secret they’re both sharing; the way that Michael’s heart speeds up whenever Jeffrey is near: _that_ is how Michael knows that Jeffrey is not what the villagers say he is.

Maybe these things do not mean that Jeffrey is good. He puts no stock in the villagers’ fears, but even so -- even if they are right -- Michael does not think he cares.

“I say the villagers are foolish and afraid,” Michael says carefully. “And if you are the Devil, then let me be damned, for wanting you here, and for so much else.”

Jeffrey’s toes just barely cross the threshold into Michael’s house. He sweeps off his hat and clutches it to his chest, fingers working the worn material restlessly as he looks at Michael. “You speak brave words.”

Michael shakes his head. “I am not brave, I am simply an honest man.”

“Maybe you are _simple_ , instead, to risk so much for me.”

Michael reaches out and covers Jeffrey’s twisting fingers with his own. A thrill courses through his body at the touch and it’s all he can do to keep from gasping aloud. He doesn’t pull away, though, he just squeezes his fingers around Jeffrey’s as he makes his point. “I have made my choice, and I choose to have you here. Now you can go, if you fear your association will endanger my soul, but I would much prefer you stay.”

Jeffrey looks down at Michael’s hand. Jeffrey stares, really, watching their hands rise and fall as he breathes. Michael clings tight, holding his breath, waiting for Jeffrey to react. The silence grows thick around them, and the waiting is the worst part -- waiting for Jeffrey to decide to reject him, waiting for Jeffrey to say that hiding in his cottage is preferable to risking both of their lives.

“People don’t-- no one-- I never get to--” Whatever Jeffrey’s trying to say, he can’t get the words out. He breathes out sharply, looks away from their hands, from Michael.

“What they say does not matter to me. Stay,” Michael insists. He lets his thumb swipe lightly over Jeffrey’s knuckles. Jeffrey sways forward and takes the last few steps into the house, standing toe to toe with Michael inside.

The door creaks shut behind Jeffrey, and Michael smiles, feeling victorious. “Good,” Michael says, patting Jeffrey’s hand. “Now come, let me show you the drawings I have done for the work for the Potter house.” He shifts his grip, curling his fingers around Jeffrey’s hand, and tugs him inside to work.

*

For the longest time, Michael’s father says nothing when he comes into the workroom to see Jeffrey and Michael together, crowded around the flickering candlelight as they work. He says nothing even as he catches them, day in and day out, leaning their heads close and whispering to one another. Michael finds himself somewhat surprised of this, because if there’s anything he knows, it is that his father is constantly in search of reasons to find fault with him.

“You know he is watching,” Jeffrey says one day as Michael works on a drawing for a house he will never build. Jeffrey stares back over his shoulder, unblinking, at Abraham.

Michael glances backwards, catching a glimpse of his father lurking in the doorway, scowling at Jeffrey. He sighs, then elbows Jeffrey in the side. “I do know, but leave it be.”

Jeffrey doesn’t turn back. Instead, he rests one hand on Michael’s back. “It’s difficult to work like this,” he murmurs.

“Jeffrey,” Michael admonishes. “Stop. Please, will you-- here, help me with this.” He flips to a new drawing. “I would like your opinion.” It’s a half-finished design for a cart, and while it’s not what he should be working on for his father, Michael finds himself inspired to do his own work more often than not, these days.

Michael doesn’t _need_ Jeffrey’s thoughts on the sketch, but he _would_ like Jeffrey to stop glaring so intently at Abraham. He hesitates for a moment, knowing his father is watching, then reaches up and lays his fingers on Jeffrey’s jaw, tilting his face forward. “Please,” Michael asks again, softly this time. “Leave it be, for me.”

For the longest time, Jeffrey is silent. Michael watches his jaw work, his teeth clenched tight, as he turns his attention to the drawing. “I think,” he says slowly, “that it doesn’t need to be quite so ornate here.” Jeffrey taps his fingers against a drawing of detailed carvings for the side of the cart.

Behind them, Michael hears his father’s footsteps carrying him away and Michael exhales.

“Tell me more,” Michael says, slotting his fingers alongside Jeffrey’s on top of the drawing.

Jeffrey leans in to whisper against Michael’s ear. “I know what you’re doing,” He shifts to cover Michael’s hand with his own. “You cannot ignore the way your father acts forever. You cannot keep me from saying something, if I’m to feel welcome here. It’s bad enough, having every person in the village speak with ignorance about what they think I am. To come here, to spend my time with you, and to have your father shadow my every move? Michael, you ask something impossible.”

Michael leans against Jeffrey. “I know, but not today. Please, leave it be.”

“For now,” Jeffrey says. “Not forever.” He lets go of Michael’s hand and straightens up then, looking back down at the drawing. “See, here. This will take constant abuse from loading and unloading goods. Your work will be destroyed too quickly. You are making a cart for farmer’s goods, not a work of art.”

Michael looks at Jeffrey’s slender fingers sprawled over the roughly drawn lines on the page, then, on impulse, reaches out to cover his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with finding beauty in even something like this, something that’s meant to be a tool, nothing more.”

“Of course.” Jeffrey turns his hand over on the table so he can squeeze Michael’s fingers. “But perhaps you oughtn’t waste something so special where it could be destroyed, even if by accident.”

Michael’s heart races as Jeffrey’s fingers slide lightly against his hand. “What if none of that matters to me?” he whispers. “What if I just want to have something beautiful, as long as it will last?”

Jeffrey reaches up with his free hand to smooth a stray lock of hair back behind Michael’s ear and Michael holds his breath. “I don’t want to be your downfall.”

Jeffrey sees straight through all the talk of beauty in one’s work and Michael finds his face growing hot, knowing what he’s dangerously close to admitting. “It doesn’t matter.” Michael allows himself a small smile, dares to lean into Jeffrey’s hand. “You shall see. All will be well.”

*

Michael is suspicious whenever his father demands that Michael take the cart out to make a delivery, a job that usually falls to a hired hand. But his newfound experimentations with bravery only carry him so far, and so he loads the cart with furniture destined for the Barwell’s home.

“Who built this?” Barwell asks as Michael tries to unload his wares. “Was it you?” Barwell’s tone is sharp and he stands well clear of Michael and his cart. Michael grunts and staggers under the weight of the long trestle table he’s attempting to wrestle out of the cart. Normally, Michael thinks, the man of the house would help him, but Barwell shows no interest in getting within arm’s reach of Michael.

Barwell claps his hands, like he’s trying to attract a child’s attention. “Richards! Was it you?”

Michael lowers one end of the table, a cloud of dirt kicking up as it hits the ground. He wipes his hands on his trousers, then hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “My father drew up the plans for your purchases. His apprentices did most of the assembly, under his ever watchful eye. Why do you ask?”

“Because if it was you, I would have told you to load it back up. I wouldn’t take it.” Barwell gestures at the cart and the half-unloaded table.

Michael’s eyebrows inch up. “Is this a joke?”

“Certainly not.” Barwell folds his arms over his chest. “My daughter lies inside, struck senseless by the most vile of Devils this village has seen; yet, you allow this same heathen to work with you? I would not permit anything so tainted to enter my home, if either of you so much as eased one board into place.”

“Jeffrey?” Michael squints at Barwell. “This is about Jeffrey?”

“ _Jeffrey_ ,” Barwell repeats, a mocking lilt to his voice. His upper lip curls in disgust. “Yes, I speak of Carter. You see nothing wrong with him, all those hours you two spend hidden away together in your house? You see nothing evil about him?”

“Of course I don’t.” Michael curls his hands around the edges of the table. “I am truly sorry about your daughter, Goodman Barwell, but I swear, Jeffrey had nothing to do with her sickness.”

Barwell flinches as Michael touches the table. “Then perhaps you are in a league with him. Perhaps he has bewitched you, too, and you come here to torment my family further? Perhaps you lie to my face. Is that not what the Devil would bid you do, lie to a God-fearing man?”

The accusation is bold, and Michael is taken aback. “I do not lie to you, sir,” Michael protests. “I would not.”

Barwell snorts. “Just unload the cart, Richards.” He waves dismissively at the table. “Unload the cart, and then get out of my sight, before I send for the magistrate.”

*

When Jeffrey arrives at Michael’s gate, Michael’s already there to meet him. “Are you not working today?” Jeffrey asks.

“Later,” Michael says. “I need to go into town for supplies and I would welcome the company.”

Jeffrey hesitates at the gate. “Maybe you should fetch someone from the village to go with you, if you need help.” He curls his hands tight around the fence and looks for all the world as if he’s rooted to the ground. “You know how they feel about me.”

Michael fixes Jeffrey with a stern look. “And for the last time, I don’t care what they think.” He reaches out and uncurls Jeffrey’s fingers from their place on the fence. “I do not wish to spend my day with anyone else. I wish to spend it with you. Now come along.” He hooks his arm around Jeffrey’s waist and tugs until Jeffrey finally relents.

Their trip into town is uneventful at first as Michael puts in an order with the butcher, leaves a letter for the man who handles his father’s books, asks after the health of the blacksmith’s son.

Stopping by the apothecary, however, is a different story.

“You, no, get out!” the proprietor shouts as soon as Jeffrey sets foot inside the shop. “I said you and your kind are not welcome here and I meant it.”

Jeffrey stops short, then draws himself up to his full height. “And I tell you, I have no _kind_ , and your words are slander.”

“Samuel,” Michael says, holding out his hands. “Come, now, there’s no need for this quarrel.” The delivery to the Barwells earlier that week sticks in the back of Michael’s mind, the way that the villagers are becoming more bold in their accusations.

“Of course you would defend him, Michael,” Samuel says, coming out from behind his counter. Michael barely notices at first, but Jeffrey’s slid one arm in front of him, nudging him out of the way. “Your father will hear of this, I’ll make sure he knows precisely _what_ you’re still spending your time with.”

Michael tries to reason with Samuel. “He’s done nothing to you, Samuel, and you know it. Leave him be.”

“Done nothing?” Samuel laughs. “Shall I tell him, then, Carter, of what you’re always in here asking for? Should I give him a list and bid him compare it with Mather's works on how to determine a witch? Should I tell him about all the times you’ve cursed me, when I’ve done nothing?”

“You speak lies,” Jeffrey snaps. “You tell stories because you are afraid of me, just like everyone else in the village.”

Jeffrey’s anger catches Michael by surprise. Jeffrey is so _mild_ when they are together, which makes the way he snarls at Samuel something that borders on frightening. “Jeffrey,” Michael calls out, soft, almost a question, as he tugs on the back of Jeffrey’s overcoat. “Jeffrey, you should leave it be, too.”

“I _won’t_ ,” he insists. “I won’t leave it be, not when--”

“I will send for the magistrate right now,” Samuel interrupts. “I will fetch him and tell him of the disturbance you’re creating, and that you’re aiding, Michael. Wouldn’t Waltham be pleased to lay charges against the both of you? He’s already hung three of your kind, Carter, so what’s two more? Between the recluse and the carpenter’s son, I don’t know who he would find more pleasing to arrest.” Samuel considers the both of them. “Probably you, Michael; everyone knows about Carter, but you? You were supposed to be a member of this society, but perhaps that all died with your brother and your mother.”

Michael gapes at Samuel, speechless. Before Michael can muster a response, Jeffrey steps in front of him, shielding him from Samuel. “You wouldn’t dare, you’re too afraid, just like the rest of them, but you shall regret it if you do. You and your family, your business, your crops, _everything_. You shall regret it, you shall see.” Jeffrey’s voice is calm, cold, and Michael shivers at the very thought of Jeffrey’s threat.

“Jeffrey!” Michael slips out from behind Jeffrey, stepping in between Jeffrey and Samuel. He presses his hands against Jeffrey’s chest and pushes, nudging him back a few steps. “Stop giving him a reason to fight.”

Jeffrey looks down at Michael and for a split second, his expression is murderous: teeth bared, eyes dark with rage. He reaches out and circles his fingers around Michael’s wrist, tight enough that Michael swears he feels the bones grind together. “Do you see?” he whispers. “Do you see what they are like?”

Michael glances back over his shoulder at Samuel, who looks ready to fight. “We’re going, Samuel. Jeffrey, we’re _going_ , come on.” He pushes against Jeffrey’s chest until he begins to back up.

“Your father will hear of this, Michael” Samuel vows as they retreat. “And you mark my words, Carter, the magistrate will come for you before long and then you’ll hang, just like the rest of them, _witch_.”

With one last, hurried shove, Michael and Jeffrey stumble out of the apothecary. Michael pushes Jeffrey off the street until they’re hiding in the shadows between buildings.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you see?” Jeffrey hisses again. “They will not rest until I hang, that’s the truth of it. They don’t understand, and I’ll go to the gallows for their stupidity before long. How many have they condemned already? How many sit in jail? I’ll be next.”

Michael wraps his hands around Jeffrey’s upper arms and gives him a shake. “Jeffrey, tell me true. What Samuel says, what all the whisperers say, is it true? Does your soul belong to the Devil?”

Jeffrey sags against Michael’s grasp, all of the fight suddenly going out of him. “Of course not, but the truth matters not to the magistrates or the selectmen or anyone in this village.”

“Oh, Jeffrey,” Michael whispers. He slides his hands lightly up and down Jeffrey’s arms. “The truth matters to me.”

“I am _not_ what they say I am,” Jeffrey says with conviction.

“I believe you,” Michael says. “I believe you, Jeffrey. Can you find some solace in that, at least?”

Jeffrey nods, a tiny, resolute jerk of his chin.

“Then take heart,” Michael says, “and live one day at a time, here, with me, and do not trouble yourself with others’ threats.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Jeffrey pulls himself from Michael’s grasp and takes a step away. “With every day that passes, the whispers grow louder and I am closer still to the gallows. You would do well to be clear of me before that happens.”

“Do I need to remind you that _you_ came to _me_? _”_

“And I regret the danger I’ve brought to your doorstep. Salem changes by the minute and there’s not a thing you or I can do about it.” Jeffrey turns his back on Michael and takes a few more steps away. “I wanted to see, I wanted -- it’s been so lonely, staying away all this time, and I wanted to know --” Jeffrey scores a line in the dirt with the heel of his boot, then kicks over it. “I’d heard things. I’d heard that you would -- that maybe you wouldn’t turn me away. And so I was curious. I didn’t expect to grow so…” He lets his words fall away.

“Friendly?” Michael offers.

Jeffrey turns back around and smiles, looking more gentle than Michael’s ever seen, a far cry from his blinding rage in the apothecary. “ _Fond_ , I would say. I didn’t expect to grow so fond of you.”

“Fond,” Michael repeats, and he feels his face grow warm despite the chill in the air. “Yes, well, you could say that is mutual.”

Jeffrey reaches for Michael, but stops just short and shakes his head. “I’m going home, Michael. And I’m going to stay there. I’m not going to bring death to your door.”

“So you’re just going to return to the way things were? You’re going to hide? You say you were curious, you say you were so alone, and you are going to walk away from all you have here--” Michael gestures at himself before he can stop. “You know I am not afraid of what they say. And yet you’re going to give up, just because of a few scared people?”

“Open your _eyes_ , Michael,” Jeffrey snaps. “Every day there are new accusations. Every day, someone else falls ill. All because you avoid the meeting house doesn’t mean that your neighbors are not daily dragged out before God and all assembled to be accused of falsehoods. Perhaps I find that I am afraid of death, and if retreat means _surviving_ , then so be it.”

Michael starts to speak, but Jeffrey cuts him off. “Goodbye, Michael. Keep yourself safe.” He pivots on his heel and goes, heading towards the long, winding paths that will take him to his cottage. Michael wants to follow, but something keeps him rooted to the spot, and it’s not until Jeffrey’s but a speck in the distance that Michael is able to set one foot in front of the other, and even then, all he can do is drag himself home.

*

Michael feels Jeffrey’s absence keenly as he tries to resume his work. He finds himself full of stories to tell and questions to ask, but there’s only an empty room to hear his words. Michael catches himself looking up at the door, expecting Jeffrey to stroll through, but he never does. It’s usually just Abraham, who lingers next to the workbench, taps his hand against the side of the table that Jeffrey had staked out for himself, then smiles knowingly at Michael.

He usually passes through without saying a word, but today, he finally stops to talk. “I see you dismissed your _apprentice_ , Michael.”

Michael barely looks up from his work. “He’s gone,” he says without inflection. He owes his father no more an explanation than that.

“Good,” Abraham says, and when Michael finally spares a glance for his father, he looks more pleased than Michael ever recalls seeing him. “I’ve told you time and again since he started coming around that nothing good would come of it. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, what he’s like. The way he hurts those poor bewitched souls, the way they all writhe and scream when he walks past. He deals with the Devil, Michael, you should surely be able to see this. Have you finally seen reason? And just in time, too. Magistrate Waltham told me they have nearly enough people willing to speak against him to bring him up for trial.”

That grabs Michael’s attention. “ _What_?”

“Don’t act so surprised. As if what he’s done to the Barwell girl wasn’t bad enough, the magistrate says that Carter cursed the Radcliffes with poor crops, and overnight, their fields dried up. I think Waltham only waits because he is so busy with all of the others for whom he’s heard complaints.” Abraham claps one rough hand on Michael’s shoulders. “I am proud of you, son, for separating yourself from your… arrangement.”

Michael recoils from his father’s touch. In all of his life, Michael’s father has never once said those words -- _I’m proud of you_ \-- not once. And he says it now, only because Michael allowed Jeffrey to walk away? The very idea of it horrifies Michael, knowing that this is what could redeem him in his father’s eyes. If his options are gaining his father’s approval or having Jeffrey at his side, Michael is more sure now than ever before of what he would choose.

Michael cannot stand it, he cannot allow it. He will not waste one more minute, listening to his father talk to him as if he is a child who has done his chores. He stands up suddenly, shaking off his father’s hand, and begins to retreat from the room. “I don’t need to listen to this,” Michael says. “I will not.” He grabs his cloak, throws it over his shoulders.

“You are not leaving,” Abraham says. “You have work to do here.”

“I do.” Michael fastens his cloak and heads to the door. “But I will not do it. I’m… I’m needed elsewhere.”

Abraham narrows his eyes at Michael. “What else could you possibly have to do?”

Michael stays silent. He can practically see his father thinking, coming to his own conclusions. Michael could lie. He could make up any number of reasons why he’s leaving, but he won’t.

“Are you going after him?”

Michael shakes his head. “I owe you nothing.”

Abraham gestures at the door. “You’ll regret your actions, if you do.”

Michael pushes the door open, takes a step outside. “Then so be it.”

*

As Michael approaches Jeffrey’s cottage on the fringes of the village, he feels a chill roll up his spine. It’s not just the overcast sky or the eerie breeze that ruffles the leaves that makes him feel uncomfortable. He’s never been this close to the cottage and he has to admit that there’s something that feels unnatural about the parcel of land, hidden away from prying eyes.

Michael stares at the cottage, trying to understand why he suddenly feels afraid. It looks harmless enough -- maybe a little misshapen, worn, rough around the edges, but still. “It’s just a house,” Michael whispers to himself. “It’s nothing.”

He’s only halfway up the overgrown walkway when the door opens and Jeffrey steps out.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says as he walks towards Michael. “I thought you understood.”

“Please hear me out. I understand that you’re afraid,” Michael says. “I understand that you worry for my life, if the village turns on you. But.” Michael glances up at the sky, watches the clouds roll past. “But you did not ask me what I wanted. You did not allow me a say in this.”

“It’s for the best--”

“No,” Michael says, cutting him off. “No, you may think that, but it is not. Do you know, people have congratulated me for taking my leave of you? My own father said he was _proud_ , and I-- Jeffrey, that is not the kind of man I want to be, someone who is congratulated for setting someone aside.”

“So you will be a dead man, instead?” Jeffrey folds his arms over his chest and looks down at Michael, clearly unimpressed.

Michael longs to tell the truth for once, to stop hiding behind half-truths and careful phrasing. “I would walk to the gallows with you rather than spend one more minute apart,” Michael blurts, louder than intended. “Thinking of you, here, alone -- I cannot bear it. I don’t know how it happened, but you are a part of my life as sure and steady as breathing.” Michael spreads his hands, palms up, in front of him. “Do you understand what I say? Do you? Tell me, or I will speak more plainly so that you do.”

Jeffrey looks away. “I do,” he whispers, his words nearly lost to the wind. “I understand, but -- you walk a dangerous path, Michael. Do you understand what it is you say?”

“ _Yes_ , damn you, Jeffrey, I understand, and I wish to take this risk. You mean to tell me that you do not want the same?” Michael wants to reach out and shake Jeffrey. He doesn’t know how to make him truly believe what Michael says. “Will you lie to me and say you feel nothing at all? You _dare_ tell me that?”

Jeffrey turns his face towards the sky. “What else can I say? I am afraid, Michael.”

Michael squeezes Jeffrey’s arm. “Tell me why.”

“If I let you in…” Jeffrey swallows heavily, then looks down at Michael. “If you stay, only trouble will follow.”

“Please.” Michael moves forward again, standing toe to toe with Jeffrey. “Please, let’s go inside and talk.”

“You do not understand,” Jeffrey insists, pulling his arm from Michael’s grasp. “I will do something the both of us will regret.”

Michael is good at many things, but he is not very good at being told no. “You will not, I assure you.” He reaches out again and his fingers catch on the hem of Jeffrey’s cloak. “You would have me beg?”

“I would have you stay _safe_ ,” Jeffrey snaps. “I would have you remain above suspicion. I would give your father one less reason to disinherit you. I would have you stay untainted by what it is they say of me.”

“Remind me what it is they say of you? That you do consort with the Devil?”

Jeffrey laughs, a short huff of breath through his teeth. “Yes, and people cannot decide if they are more troubled by the Devil or by the _consorting,_ as if one or the other won’t still see me hanged, when the magistrates come.”

“It is you who does not understand,” Michael fires back. “If the magistrates come for you, they should find reason to take me, too, and so be it, for there is nowhere I want to be if it is not by your side.”

That brings Jeffrey up short and he stands, speechless, as Michael waits before him, shoulders heaving. “You shouldn’t,” he says. He wrings his hands together, fingers twisting in front of his chest. “I want--” He closes his eyes and looks away. “Michael, there is so much I _want_ , but not at your expense.” Jeffrey speaks slowly, picking his words out with care. “It will be a tremendous waste if you wind up hanging alongside me. You are meant for so much more.”

Michael closes the distance between them and very slowly reaches out, laying his fingers on Jeffrey’s neck, just above his collar. “If I am to hang, so be it. So please, just let me stay.”

Jeffrey stays absolutely still, his gaze flickering down to Michael’s outstretched arm. “You shouldn’t,” he whispers. “You should run, Michael Richards, carpenter’s only son. You should run fast and far away from me.”

“There are many things I _should_ do,” Michael says as he slides his hand up to rest on Jeffrey’s cheek. “But I will not.”

“We will all surely die.” Jeffrey looks very far away as he speaks, his eyes focusing somewhere in the distance. “The village thirsts for my blood to be spilled. We will both hang on the basis of lies and fear, and I never wanted you to hang. I never wanted my troubles to find you, and yet--”

Michael can listen to no more, not when he knows there is nothing that could dissuade him. He takes Jeffrey’s face in his hands and before Jeffrey can get another word out, Michael rises up on his toes and kisses him, begging without saying a single word.

Jeffrey hesitates for only a moment before his hands come up and twist in Michael’s cloak, keeping them close until Michael slows the kiss. “Please,” Michael whispers. “Please, will you invite me inside?”

Jeffrey says nothing, just presses kisses to Michael’s mouth, his cheeks, his forehead. He holds tight to Michael, not giving him an inch of space. “Yes,” he says finally, his voice rough. “Come inside.” Slowly, he pulls away, just enough to take Michael’s hand to lead him up the path to the cottage.

Once inside, Michael feels like he should feign surprise at the home, but somehow it’s exactly as he’d imagined. Even as Jeffrey goes around and lights candles and stokes the fire so they can see, the cottage remains dim. Michael catches glimpses of scattered papers on a workbench, teetering piles of books, unidentifiable jars and flasks stacked haphazardly on shelves, herbs hanging down from the rafters to dry. It is not a flattering portrait for one who professes to be innocent of the cries of witchcraft, even Michael can admit.

Still, Michael cannot bring himself to care. Jeffrey could summon the Devil himself right now and Michael does not think he would even look twice, not when he has other things on his mind. “Jeffrey,” Michael says, drawing his attention back. “Jeffrey, leave the candles be.” Once Jeffrey’s set down his candle and is looking at Michael again, Michael unbuttons his cloak and lets it fall in a heap on the floor.

“You’ll catch a chill,” Jeffrey says, his voice rough. From across the one-room cottage, he watches Michael carefully. “It’s always so cold in here--”

Michael worries his lower lip between his teeth as he tugs the tail of his shirt free from his trousers. He did not beg his way into Jeffrey’s home to chastely sit and talk about the weather. “Perhaps later,” Michael says. “Or perhaps I will just sit near enough to the fire to stay warm.” Michael pulls his shirt over his head and lets it drop, too, as he takes one step towards Jeffrey, and then another. “Or perhaps I do not care at all.” He presses his hands to Jeffrey’s chest. “Do you truly worry about the chill?” Michael smiles, shy and hopeful. “Perhaps we should both sit by the fire to stay warm.”

At long last, Jeffrey cracks a smile. “You are bold today, Michael.” He reaches out and hooks his fingers in the waist of Michael’s trousers, keeping him close.

“Am I?” Michael keeps moving forward, herding Jeffrey to step back towards the bed in the far corner of the room. “Perhaps I am seeing clearly for the first time what I could have had all along, if only I’d spoken plainly.”

“And what is it you think you can have?” Jeffrey asks. His knees hit the bed and Michael grins, feeling a little wicked for once.

“You.” He sets his hands on Jeffrey’s shoulders and pushes, sending him to sit down hard on the bed. Jeffrey sprawls back as Michael climbs up to kneel astride him.

“You could have the whole world,” Jeffrey whispers. “You could have anything you could even name, and I would give it to you, if only you would ask.”

“There is nothing else I want.” Michael plucks at Jeffrey’s shirt as he speaks, sliding his hands up under the rough linen. “I do want _this_ , though. I want you to welcome me into your bed. I want your hands on me. I want -- I want to make you happy.” Michael feels his face heat up as he speaks, unaccustomed to having the freedom to be so plain with his desires. “Tell me, is it in your power to grant me that?”

Jeffrey raises up his arms to allow Michael to peel him out of his shirt. “I think you speak too much,” Jeffrey says once freed. “I think you should kiss me again, and then we see what I can give you.”

*

Jeffrey presses himself up against Michael’s back, afterwards. He whispers words against Michael’s skin, too muffled for Michael to make out.

“What are you saying?” Michael asks. He reaches back and grabs Jeffrey’s arm, draping it over his waist.

Jeffrey pulls back and hesitates. He draws one hand up Michael’s stomach and Michael’s muscles jump under the light pressure. “I -- what would you say if I said it was for your protection?” he finally answers. “What would you think, if I lie here and ask the trees and the rivers and the moon and the stars to protect you?”

It’s maybe the strangest thing Michael’s ever heard Jeffrey say, but right then, Michael doesn’t care. He feels warm and cared for and sore in all the right places. Jeffrey could start speaking in tongues, Michael thinks, and he wouldn’t change his mind at all.

“I think it sounds lovely.” Michael wriggles back into Jeffrey’s arms and closes his eyes. “I won’t tell. I won’t breathe a word.”

*

Michael begins spending his time in Jeffrey’s cottage. Half-finished projects sit and wait in his father’s workroom; Michael thinks perhaps he’ll return to them, or perhaps he’ll gather his supplies up when he knows his father is out and bring them back to the cottage.

Or perhaps he will abandon his work entirely in favor of this, making the quietest of lives with Jeffrey. Alone in the cottage, they’re free to sit close, Jeffrey’s chin resting on Michael’s shoulder as they read together. And sometimes Jeffrey presses a kiss to Michael’s neck; sometimes, Michael lets his fingers slide up Jeffrey’s thigh; sometimes, they whisper secrets for no one’s ears but their own.

And so today is no different than any other. Michael sits with a set of drawings spread out before him on the table, absently making notes in the corners. Jeffrey sits with his face buried against Michael’s neck, one hand pulling aside his collar to let him mouth softly at Michael’s skin.

“You’re a menace,” Michael whispers, reaching down to dig his fingers into Jeffrey’s thigh. “I’m trying to work.”

“As if that has bothered you before. Should I stop?” Jeffrey punctuates his question with a soft bite to Michael’s neck.

“No,” Michael admits, tipping his head to the side. “You should not.”

Michael feels Jeffrey smile against his skin. “Are you certain that you want to continue working?”

“I’m nearly--”

The sound of the front door banging open startles Michael and Jeffrey, and they separate immediately. Michael bolts off of the bench and stands aside while he tries to adjust his clothing to make himself look more presentable.

Magistrate Waltham appears in the doorway, flanked by Abraham, who smiles, wide and terrible, enough to make Michael’s blood run cold.

“Jeffrey Carter,” Waltham says. “I had hoped you were home.” Waltham scans the room and grins as he takes in the surroundings: the flasks and books and murky jars that Michael has quickly become accustomed to now look sinister, knowing what Waltham is likely here for.

“And you! You will want to see this, Michael.” He turns back towards the doorway and gestures at someone behind him. “Sheriff Harper, please join us.”

Michael can’t help himself, he lets out a choked noise as the Sheriff and his deputies enter the cottage. “What is the meaning of this?” Michael asks. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, Michael,” Waltham says. “I am here on official business for Salem. I think you both know why I’m here.” He advances into the room, stopping to stand toe to toe with Jeffrey, whose jaw clenches tight, whose hands ball into fists at his sides. “And so do you. Sheriff?”

Harper steps forward and takes Jeffrey by the arm. Jeffrey tries to pull away, but Waltham blocks his path. “Jeffrey Carter,” Harper says, “you will be taken to Boston and held there until you are brought to trial for the heinous crime of witchcraft.”

“This has been a long time coming, Carter.” Waltham gives Jeffrey a shove, pushing him toward Harper. “Do you know how long I’ve been collecting complaints about you? Do you know how long I’ve waited to see you brought to justice?”

“Justice?” Jeffrey bristles in Harper’s grasp. “You talk to me of justice, when you hang the innocent based on lies?”

“On whose complaints do you do this?” Michael edges closer to the men clustered together at the doorway. “What gives you the right?”

“The Lord God gives me the right, Michael,” Waltham responds. “The Lord, and the volume of complaints I have collected about the evil that Carter’s infected our community with.”

“They’re wrong,” Michael protests. “They misunderstand, or they lie, but they are wrong, Jeffrey isn’t--”

Waltham reaches out for Michael, catching him by the arm. “I advise you to consider your words carefully,” he says coldly. “I’ve received more than a few complaints about you, as well.”

Michael wants to argue. This isn’t justice, this is a farce. He knows Jeffrey, far better than Waltham and Harper ever will, and he knows Jeffrey could never be capable of the evil that they suggest he’s committed. But Jeffrey shakes his head.

“Leave it be, Michael,” Jeffrey says. “Don’t -- don’t do this to yourself.”

Michael exhales. He shakes off Waltham’s hand and steps back. “Smart boy,” Waltham says. “Take the witch away, Sheriff, before he can do any more harm.”

Jeffrey goes quietly, sparing a glance over his shoulder for Michael. Michael wishes Jeffrey would stop, fight back, say anything to get Waltham to let him go, but he won’t.

Michael follows the sad parade to the door. He’s aware of his father, looming behind him as he watches Waltham shove Jeffrey outside. Michael moves to go with them -- he intends to follow Jeffrey wherever he is taken -- but his father catches him, one hand falling heavy on his shoulder.

“I advise you reconsider,” he whispers, low enough to keep anyone else from hearing. “I know more of your secrets than you would like. If you take one more step after him, I’ll call Waltham back.”

Michael stops in his tracks. He doesn’t look back at his father. He doesn’t need to; he knows the satisfied look he’ll see on his face. “Did you do this?” he asks, watching as Harper’s deputies manhandle Jeffrey into the back of their cart. “Is this your doing?”

“I had an obligation to this community, and to God, to stop him,” Abraham says. “Surely you understand.”

*

Michael’s time passes in an endless, awful cycle -- he does his work for his father, quietly and without complaint -- and when he has days to spare, he sets off for Boston to see Jeffrey.

“Are you well? Are they at least good to you?” he asks every time, and every time, Jeffrey refuses to answer.

Michael knows the guards are not, in fact, good to Jeffrey. He hears stories from the families of the women who are being held, but Jeffrey refuses to say a single word about his jailers. For the most part, Jeffrey doesn’t say much of anything at all, and so Michael starts one-sided conversations while Jeffrey coughs and shivers in his cell.

“I brought food.” Michael rummages in his bag and pulls out some bread wrapped in a cloth. “It isn’t much, but Goodman Turner told me that when he visited Hannah last, she said that the women haven’t been...” Michael trails off and shoves the package through the bars of Jeffrey’s cell. “Well. You need to eat something, and this is all I could get away. Please, just take it.”

Jeffrey stands up and crosses the cell to meet Michael at the bars. He shuffles slowly, wincing every time he puts too much weight on his right foot. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to go.”

“Shh.” Michael shakes his head. “All the others have families to care for them. Let me do this for you.”

Jeffrey doesn’t take the package. “They will use this against you, you know. They will bring you in for trial, and they will use this as evidence.”

Michael laughs. “For bringing you bread? For making sure you don’t starve?”

“You visit so often, and you have to know that Waltham watches your every move. They will say you have been bewitched to do my bidding. They will say my specter came to you and bid you come, they will say anything to put you in here with me.” Jeffrey’s eyes are wild; they burn bright in the sickly pale flesh of his face. “You should go.”

Michael shoves the package between the bars. “Jeffrey, take the package. I’m already here. Whatever Waltham may think, I can’t change his mind now.”

Jeffrey tugs the parcel from Michael’s hands. “There,” he says. “I have taken it. Now go.”

“Jeffrey.” Michael wraps his hands around the bars and leans in close. “They will not come for me. They have no grounds.”

“They _need_ no grounds,” Jeffrey says. He finally comes right up to the bars and snakes his free hand out, curling his fingers in the front of Michael’s shirt. “Waltham has more evidence against you than he had for Hannah or Patience or Abigail, and they already sit convicted and wait to die.”

Michael glances back over his shoulder, making sure no one is approaching, then covers Jeffrey’s hand with his own. “Do you not remember? I told you once I would walk to the gallows with you, if it meant I could stay by your side.” He leans in and presses his forehead against the bars, getting as close to Jeffrey as he can. “I meant it. You speak as though there is no hope; if there is not, then I may best find peace by going to Waltham and confessing, if it means we will walk to our ends together.”

Jeffrey makes a stricken noise. He lets go of Michael’s shirt to reach through the bars and cup Michael’s face in his hand for only a moment before he steps back, retreating to the far corner of the cell.

“Thank you for the food. Go home, Michael. Be safe.” He clutches the bundle of bread to his chest as he sits back down. “Be _safe_.”

*

The longer Jeffrey lingers in jail -- the longer Michael exhausts himself, trekking back and forth to Boston -- the longer Michael hears the whispers trailing after him as he goes about town -- the angrier he gets.

Michael bites his tongue with every remark his father makes, with every shriek of _devil! devil!_ he hears when he’s just trying to go about his business -- but it just gets harder every single day.

The public house stops serving him. The butcher only allows Michael inside if one of his father’s apprentices comes with him. Their bookkeeper very pointedly tells Michael that he will only speak to Abraham from now on.

Michael can feel the village closing in on him. With every day that passes, he starts to understand why Jeffrey would rather pass his time alone in his cottage. Hiding away is infinitely preferable to having his neighbors curse and spit at him as he walks past. The very strength that Jeffrey must have had, to even dare to come down to the village to talk to Michael, to work by his side, is not lost on Michael as he struggles to get through the day.

The apothecary is Michael’s first stop of the day, and he’s already feeling on edge. Anger lurks just under his skin, crawling to get out. _So this is what it feels like_ , Michael thinks, _to want to destroy this town_.

As soon as Michael walks into the stop, Samuel steps out from behind his counter. “Get out,” he orders, blocking Michael from going any further. “Get out, you are not welcome, now or ever.”

“My money is as good as anyone else’s,” Michael protests.

“Not anymore, it isn’t.” Samuel stays clear of Michael; he backs up every time Michael edges towards him. “Take your money and go.”

Michael has had absolutely enough. He plants his feet firmly on the ground. “What will you do, if I don’t?”

“I will have you arrested for trespassing,” Samuel sputters. “And then while you’re in the stocks for that, perhaps you can finally be jailed for your witchcraft.”

Michael’s hands flex at his sides. “What makes you think I will allow that? What makes you think the stocks are enough to stop me?” The words come before Michael can think the better of it. The lie feels good, and the stunned look on Samuel’s face makes Michael grin, wide and wicked.

“Do you think even death can stop me?” He takes one step towards Samuel, then another. “Do you think death has stopped any of the witches of Salem? Do they not still torment you all from beyond the grave?”

Samuel edges away, towards the open door of the shop. “Someone call the magistrate!” he shouts. “Fetch the sheriff!”

Michael glances outside; a crowd is gathering outside of the apothecary, watching Michael and Samuel warily circle each other. He’s already said too much. He might as well finish what he started.

“I curse you, Samuel Bingham,” Michael says, his voice low and steady. “I curse you to ill health and a failed business, I curse you and your family and anyone who dares challenge me. You’ve brought this upon yourself, just remember when you lay dying.”

Behind Michael, the floorboards creak; a glance at Samuel’s face shows relief. Michael doesn’t even need to turn around to know who’s behind him.

“We meet again, Richards,” says Waltham. “How surprising.”

More footsteps. “Take him, Sheriff,” and then there are hands grabbing at Michael, pulling him back by his arms, dragging him out of the apothecary.

“You shall see,” Michael yells, twisting in the sheriff’s arms. “You shall see what happens when you cross me! You will suffer for this!” As he’s dragged off through the jeering crowd, Michael almost believes his words could be true.

*

By the time Michael arrives at the Boston jail, he’s weary from the road and from the rough treatment at the hands of the sheriff’s deputies. He sees Jeffrey there, huddled sleeping in the corner, and as soon as the cell door swings shut behind him, Michael goes to sit next to him.

“Share,” he says, tugging at Jeffrey’s blanket. “There’s only one for the both of us.”

Jeffrey wakes immediately and stares at Michael, blinking hard and shaking his head, like he’s trying to make sense out of this.

“What have you _done_?” he asks as he drops the blanket and scrambles to his knees.

Michael spreads his hands out in front of him. “What needed to be done. I refused to hide, Jeffrey, I refused to just stay away, and so now here I am.”

Jeffrey reaches out, his hands hovering just above Michael’s shoulders. “This is no place for you,” he says. “This is -- _Michael_.” Jeffrey drops his hands and turns away, pacing in the small cell.

“I know,” Michael whispers, turning with Jeffrey as he walks in circles. “We will be tried, and we will be convicted, and we will die. I know.”

“I never wanted this.” Jeffrey stops and reaches for Michael suddenly, gripping Michael’s hands tight. “I never -- I was curious, I grew to -- “ He cuts himself off, then lets go of Michael’s hands and sits back down, tucking his knees to his chest. “This was not the plan.”

“Well.” Michael lowers himself to sit next to Jeffrey. Under the cover of the ratty blanket he pulls up around him, he turns in to rest one hand on Jeffrey’s hip. “Well, I am here now, and whatever comes next, I will be by your side.”

*

If there are any small mercies in this world, it is that Waltham doesn’t make them wait very long to face their trial, and before Michael has even etched more than a handful of tally marks into the wall to count the days, he and Jeffrey are bundled up and sent to Salem to face their community once again, this time, as accused witches.

Michael sits on the edge of his seat as their friends and neighbors stand before all and say that Jeffrey hurts them, that he wishes them harm, that he pressures them to give their souls over to the Devil. Their words are all lies, Michael knows, but with each person’s testimony, the smile on Waltham's face grows more smug.

"What do you say to hearing these truths spoken before you?" Waltham asks when Jeffrey is called to the front of the meeting house.

"I say they are not truths," Jeffrey replies. "I say these people are mistaken, or they lie. I have never hurt a soul here. I have never hurt these people. I have never seen many of them before.”

“These people recite their truths before God, Mr. Carter, and you dare call them liars? They stand here with credible information against you, truths about your pact with the devil that go back years.” Waltham paces the room. “Young Miss Barwell told an interesting story, do you realize? Tell me again, Carter, about how you came to live by yourself on the hill?”

“My parents are dead,” Jeffrey says flatly. “My sisters are gone. There is no one but me.”

“You contradict Miss Barwell’s story?”

“What Miss Barwell said to you is not the truth.”

“So you say that you did not give your mother’s soul to the Devil in exchange for your powers?” Waltham sounds incredulous; Michael wonders if Waltham realizes exactly how stupid he sounds. “Miss Barwell says that she witnessed the conversation herself when you forced her to make her mark in the devil’s book.”

Jeffrey lifts his hands to his face; on the long benches, in the gallery, a group of girls who say they’ve been bewitched do the same, their fingers raking across their skin until Jeffrey settles his hands in his lap again. He hesitates before answering, and when he does, there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice that gives Michael pause. “Miss Barwell is telling you a dream, a fanciful story. Nothing more. My father was lost at sea. My mother fell ill. Her second husband left us all behind. That is the truth of it.”

The questioning goes on and on like that. Waltham and his carefully curated group of accusers say that Jeffrey has done the most wretched things. After a time, Jeffrey stops bothering to answer. Michael stops listening to Waltham and focuses on watching Jeffrey instead, the way he sits and endures the questioning, Waltham’s insults, the lies of the villagers. He sits tall and proud, and Michael allows himself just the smallest glimmer of hope that someone else will see past the story Waltham is trying to tell.

Michael startles when he hears Waltham loudly call his name. He looks up and Waltham stands before him. “Where were you, Mr. Richards?” Waltham asks, backing away now that he has Michael’s attention again.

“I stopped listening,” Michael admits. “The lies grow tedious after a time.”

“Mr. Carter’s lies, you mean,” Waltham says. “Because surely you know the truth. Perhaps we should turn our focus to you, now.”

Michael opens his mouth to speak, but he sees Jeffrey shake his head, the tiniest jerk of his chin. Michael exhales, leans forward in his chair, looks down at the ground. He doesn’t keep fighting. There’s no sense in it.

“I have one witness,” Waltham says, and he beckons at someone unseen in the crowd. “Please come forward, Abraham Richards.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd and Michael turns around in his chair -- ignoring the shrieks and writhing of the so-called _afflicted_ \-- to see his own father advance to the front of the room.

“Goodman Richards,” Waltham begins as Abraham gets settled in his seat. “You have come to me to register several complaints of witchcraft, committed by both of the accused, correct?”

Abraham looks down at his hands and doesn’t answer at first.

Michael grips tight to the edges of his chair and leans forward in his seat, watching his father closely. There is no love lost between the two of them, but Michael allows himself to hope for one long, desperate moment, that his father will retract his complaints. Family must mean something to Abraham, Michael thinks, particularly when there is no one but Michael left.

But when Abraham finally looks back up, there’s a glint in his eyes that sinks any hope Michael had.

“I did, yes.”

“And when did you become aware of the witchcraft in your own home?”

“Perhaps two months ago, maybe three, I saw something.”

“Goodman Richards,” Waltham prods. “Will you tell us what you witnessed?”

Abraham straightens up in the chair. “I have witnessed the most vile of rituals, an attempt at summoning Satan himself.” For a man reminiscing about something so terrible, Michael notes that his father looks surprisingly calm. “If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would have scarcely believed it. A loud noise from the yard awakened me, and when I went to look…” His voice trails off and he shudders.

“I know it is hard,” Waltham says, “to recount something so terrible, but for the good of the community, and for the Lord God above, I implore you to let the truth be known.”

Abraham casts one glance at Michael, his expression gone cold. “The _accused_ was in the yard, leading some sort of revel. I heard him chanting, saw him raise his hands to the sky. He was calling down all of the witches, I saw them fly in, all those damned souls, Nurse and Bishop and Tilley and all of them, converging in my yard.”

Michael swears he sees Waltham grin. “Were there others joining the accused?”

“There were a dozen, I did not know all of their names. There was an old woman, stooped, in a bright red cloak, with boils upon her neck. There was a girl with her with bright blue eyes and hair like straw. Too young to have lost her soul already, a tragedy. And--” Abraham looks up again and this time he _does_ smile, though his gaze slips right over Michael and lands on Jeffrey. “That one, of course.” Abraham points directly at Jeffrey. “That one was there with the accused, leading him on in this summoning.”

“You indicate Jeffrey Carter, also on trial here today for the crime of witchcraft, is that correct?”

“Yes. _Yes_.” Abraham looks back at Michael; he does not look the slightest bit remorseful for what he says. “The two of them together called down all of their witches, right in my own yard, and you know, Magistrate Waltham, that I am a God-fearing man, you know I would not invite this into my home, and -- he is no son of mine, the accused, this witch. But the things I saw -- they are unforgivable, they must be punished.”

Michael tries to think back on anything he could have possibly done to catch his father’s ire like that. And then it comes to him, the hazy recollection of a night not long before Jeffrey was arrested, the feel of Jeffrey’s hands pulling him closer, his breath warm against Michael’s skin in the cold night air. If he’s right about this, then Michael knows full well what his father saw that night in his yard and it was not a heathen revel, and, _strange_ , that Abraham would rather admit to harboring a witch in his own home than what he really saw: Jeffrey with his hands upon Michael, an embrace, a kiss, a promise.

Either way, Michael supposes he loses. He will hang, if he is convicted as a witch, and maybe that is what his father wants. If his father were to bring his _other_ suspicions before the magistrate, they may only expel Michael from the village. Perhaps Abraham wanted to go for the option which was more certain to get him what he wanted.

Michael looks over at Jeffrey. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows even acknowledging his presence is tantamount to an admission, but he must _._ Jeffrey sits utterly still, but his hands twist together in the sleeves of his cloak, his lips moving soundlessly. His eyes catch Michael’s and he nods, just once, then inclines his head towards the front of the room again.

Abraham goes on. “I tell you true, magistrate, he is a witch of the most vile kind. It was awful enough, knowing that I couldn’t keep Carter out of my home, but seeing what it turned Michael into, knowing that he had given his life to the Devil, it has been too much for my spirit to take. I always knew there was something wrong with him. You know, he didn’t mourn when his brother died? Or his mother? He did not grieve at all. I think he was happy about it.”

Michael has listened to any number of falsehoods told about him today, but this is a step too far. “That is a lie!” he shouts, jumping out of his chair. “I mourned them, you know I did! Everything changed when they died, and you have been nothing but a monster ever since!”

The deputies advance on Michael, and before Michael can take more than a few steps towards his father, they grab his arms and hold him back.

“You call me a monster?” Abraham addresses Michael himself for the first time. “You dare? I have long wondered how they fell ill. Now, perhaps, I know.”

Michael strains against the deputies’ grasp. “You think I killed them? Mother was all I _had_ , why would I do that?”

“Because you are a witch!” Abraham shouts. “We were all too blind to see, but the scales have been lifted --” Abraham stops suddenly, his words dying in his throat as his expression twists in pain. He howls, doubling over and clutching at his thigh.

“Someone stop him!” a voice from the crowd shouts. “He torments his own father!”

The deputies shove Michael back into his chair. “Release him!” demands one of the men, his hands clenched tight around Michael’s arms. “Release him from your spell!”

“I do nothing to harm him,” Michael protests, trying to fight off the man’s grip.

There’s another flurry of movement from all sides. Michael’s father slumps from his chair and hits the floor. On the other side of the room, Michael catches sight of Jeffrey, who sits perfectly straight, both hands pressed flat against his own chest, right over his heart. His lips move again, words too soft for Michael to hear over the chaos.

On the floor, Abraham groans and clutches his chest. When the crowd starts to shout, Michael finds himself being shackled to his chair. “I do nothing. Nothing!”

Jeffrey, forgotten in the commotion, brings his hands to his own throat.

Abraham gasps for air.

Michael stares openly at Jeffrey now, who is intently focused on watching Abraham writhe on the floor. Jeffrey murmurs something, then twists his head sharply to the side and spreads his hands out in front of his body.

Abraham lets out one last breath, then is still and silent.

“Murderer!” a woman cries. “A witch and a murderer, right before our eyes!”

Jeffrey exhales and slumps back down in his chair. Michael means to say something, anything, but before he can even find the words, the deputies are on Michael, pulling him from the meeting house, from Jeffrey, from his dead father.

*

Their convictions, unsurprisingly, come quickly. There is not much for the town’s elders to weigh in favor of Michael and Jeffrey, not after Abraham fell dead before them.

When they are reunited in their cell, Michael stays still and silent, clutching to the bars, while Jeffrey goes to sit on the floor. Michael watches the guard walk away, then goes to sit next to Jeffrey. Jeffrey looks even more pale and drawn than before.; this cell is no place for him, but now Michael knows for certain that there’s no way out.

“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait.” Michael reaches over Jeffrey for the tattered scrap of fabric that used to be his cloak and settles it overtop of Jeffrey. Under the cloak, Michael reaches for Jeffrey’s hands, holding onto him tight. “I want it to be over. I don’t want Waltham to ask any _other_ questions. I want this to end”

Jeffrey sags against Michael under the cloak. “Well. You are right about that. It will all be over soon.” Jeffrey closes his eyes and turns his face against Michael’s shoulder, curling close in the dark.

Before Michael knows it, Jeffrey’s snoring quietly and Michael’s left alone with his thoughts.

In another cell, he hears the low murmur of voices. Someone pleads, someone cries, someone tries to argue.

It doesn’t matter.

It will all be over soon.

*

The sun’s barely risen when the door to their cell clangs open. “On your feet, gentleman,” the guard says. “It’s time.”

Under the makeshift blanket, Michael squeezes Jeffrey’s hand just once before letting go and shifting away. They don’t need to say anything; the sad smile that unfolds across Jeffrey’s face says more than enough.

It’s a short walk to the sheriff’s cart, and an even shorter ride to the town square where the gallows stand. The sheriff’s deputies are rougher than necessary, manhandling Michael and Jeffrey out of the cart and up the dirt path.

Jeffrey is taken first, and as Michael watches the deputies shove Jeffrey along, Michael feels real fear curl tight and hot in his gut for the first time. The deputy pushes Jeffrey, who stumbles forward. Michael squints at Jeffrey, taking in the tension on his face, the way he’s grit his teeth, the straining of his arms against the ropes binding his wrists together.

The deputy leans in close, whispers something to Jeffrey, laughs in his face, and suddenly, Jeffrey twists in the deputy’s grasp and snaps at him. Michael is too far away to make out the conversation, but the deputy must have said something awful, based on the way Jeffrey becomes so quickly enraged. The deputy shoves again at Jeffrey, who bares his teeth and shouts, his words coming out in a wild jumble, making sounds that Michael has never heard before.

“Enough!” the deputy snaps. Jeffrey rages on regardless, pulling with all his might against the men holding him in place. The deputy raises his heavy black staff and clouts Jeffrey across the face, sending Jeffrey sprawling backwards until he trips over his own feet and falls, unable to keep his balance.

Michael bites down on his lip so hard that he tastes blood, but he doesn’t cry out, doesn’t call any attention to himself.

Sprawled in the dirt, Jeffrey slowly rolls to his knees and spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth. The crowd gathered in the yard falls silent; all Michael can hear is the pounding of his own heart.

“Get up,” Michael whispers as he watches Jeffrey struggle to his feet. “Get back up so we can end this.” Jeffrey turns his face to his shoulder and wipes a string of blood and spit onto his clothes. They lock eyes and Michael forgets to breathe for a long moment as they watch one another.

“Enough of this display,” the sheriff calls out. “Bring them here.”

The deputy pulls Jeffrey to his feet and shoves him along; shortly, Michael feels a hand press between his shoulders, forcing him to fall into step behind Jeffrey, up the stairs to the gallows.

Michael tries not to think of what is happening as a man crouches to bind his legs together, then does the same to Jeffrey. _So we cannot kick_ , Michael thinks distantly as the knots are pulled tight. _So our struggles gain us no purchase_. Everything feels as though it happens in slow motion as the two of them are maneuvered into place on the gallows.

A murmur rises up from the crowd as Harper holds his hands in the air and looks towards the platform. “Executioner, do your duty.”

The executioner stands behind them now. Michael only has a few moments left before they slide the heavy canvas hood over his head -- only a moment to ask one last question, to find the truth of this all.

“Jeffrey,” he calls out, loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd clamoring for the executioner to make his move. Jeffrey tilts his head to the side to look at Michael. “Will you speak the truth, _now_ , to me? Not to any of _them_ , not the magistrates, or God, or anyone else. Just speak the truth to me. Are you what they say you are?”

Jeffrey’s jaw goes tight for a long moment, then he smiles. His grin forms slowly, revealing broken teeth smeared red with blood. “After a fashion,” he says. Jeffrey’s voice is hoarse and his smile is dark and terrible and Michael thinks that if he wasn’t already going to his death for this man, that he would offer himself up for it anyway.

“Have you no way to fix this?” Michael asks. He is not desperate, despite the executioner’s approach on the platform. He cast his lot in with Jeffrey a long time ago for better or worse, and this is what fate has wrought.

“I already have.” Jeffrey inclines his head towards Michael. “It is already fixed, in the next life, and the life after that, and after that. There will be help along the way, but it is fixed. I said it would be done, and it is.”

The words are on the tip of Michael’s tongue to ask what that means when the executioner steps up behind Jeffrey and tugs on his bound hands, hauling him back into place over the trap door on the platform.

“Close your eyes, Michael,” Jeffrey says, eerily calm as the executioner grabs him by the hair, tipping his head back. “Close your eyes now and think nothing of it. All will be well. All errors will be fixed. All will be well.”

Michael takes one last look at Jeffrey, trying to fix his face in his mind, then closes his eyes and faces front. He would not have the crowd of villagers, angry and terrified and thirsting for blood, to be the last thing he sees before he goes.

“All will be well,” Jeffrey repeats, murmuring lowly until his words are just a stream of nonsense to Michael’s ears. “All will be fixed in the years beyond this. All will be fixed, all will be well.”

Jeffrey’s words become muffled; if Michael listens closely, he can hear the shuffle of the canvas hood, the tightening of the noose, and he knows that he is next.

“All will be fixed,” Michael whispers as he feels the executioner looming behind him. “All will be fixed, all will be well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me acknowledge right off the bat that the Salem Witch Trials were a very woman-centric event. (Historical record shows fourteen women and five men were executed in 1692 for witchcraft.) By no means do I wish to diminish or erase the very real role that women played, by setting a story during this time. 
> 
> For further reading that is far more historically accurate, may I suggest the following, all of which I consulted as a reference at one point or another while writing:
> 
> Six Women of Salem: The Untold Story of the Accused and Their Accusers in the Salem Witch Trials, by Marilynne K. Roach (2013; Da Capo Press)
> 
> What Happened in Salem? Documents Pertaining to the Seventeenth-Century Witchcraft Trials, edited by David Levin (1960; Harcourt Brace)
> 
> Witch-Hunting in Seventeenth-Century New England: A Documentary History, 1638-1693, edited by David Hall (1990; Northeastern University)
> 
> The Book of English Magic, by Philip Carr-Gomm & Richard Heygate (2010; John Murray Publishers)
> 
> Additionally, while its publication came after the bulk of the writing for this was done, please also give your time to:  
> The Witches: Salem, 1692, by Stacy Schiff (2015; Little, Brown and Co.)


	2. 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for wartime appropriate violence, and, of course, death.

**_1943, White Waltham Airfield, Maidenhead, United Kingdom_ **

Richie checks the flight board for the Special Assignmentchit that denotes his flight out of Maidenhead. He’s supposed to be off to Lyon in the morning and he always likes to know who his pilot is before they go.

It takes some searching, but there it is, buried near the bottom of the list:

_Special Assignment: Cartsy - L 0100h_

Richie groans. Fucking pilots and their fucking cryptic board. Now he has to go around all the pilots and figure out which fucker calls himself _Cartsy_ , good god _damn._

Richie likes to keep to the same pilots when he can: Quickie, Brownie. Kopi, if he’s got to drop into Eastern Europe. Cartsy’s a new one, and fuck it all if Richie wants to bother to learn to cope with some new pilot at this stage in the game.

There’s a group of men playing poker in the mess hall; the first one Richie sees has pilot wings clipped to his uniform, so Richie figures that’s as good a place as any to start. Richie comes up behind the table and clears his throat. “Gentlemen.”

Everyone turns to stare at him. The one with the wings sees the bars on Richie’s shoulders and his eyes go wide. “Shit, shit, fuck,” he blurts as he scrambles to get out of his chair to salute. The rest of them follow suit, shoulders back and chests puffed up as they fall in line in front of Richie.

The pilot’s young -- they’re all painfully young, really -- and Richie can’t quite find it within himself to be a dick right now. The kid’s probably already been blown out of the sky once, if he’s been sent over to the ATA for ferry duty and not combat. Richie hooks his thumbs in his pockets and leans back on his heels. “What’s your name, pilot?”

“Joner, sir.” He fidgets in place, trying smooth out his wrinkled slacks. “Uh, that is, Martin Jones, sir.”

“Well, Joner, Martin Jones,” Richie starts, and he can only barely keep a straight face. “You tell me where I can find one of your boys? Flight board calls him Cartsy.”

Joner looks helplessly at the others until one of them speaks up. “Probably in his bunk, sir,” the second says.

“Sulking,” adds the third pilot, the one with squinty eyes and rosy cheeks.

Joner elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up, Toff.” The third, Toff, just shrugs, and Joner sighs. “Cartsy’s new to the flight pool, sent over from RAF after, well.” Joner whistles and makes a diving motion with his hand, then mimes an explosion. “Not taking well to not seeing combat anymore. Sir.”

Richie sighs. Not only did they give him a new ATA boy, but they gave him one who’s got an attitude about being there. Great. “Where’s Cartsy’s bunk, boys?”

Toff and the other pilot look at Joner, who rolls his eyes. “He’s bunking over in B building. Hard to miss. Tall, blonde, really hacked off at the world. He’s-- well. You’ll know him when you see him.”

That’s not actually all that helpful, but it’s as good as it’s going to get. “Thanks, boys. Back to your game.” He waves his hand at the table and turns on his heel.

Richie’s going to go find his pilot.

*

A couple of guys in B building fit Joner’s description of Cartsy, but Richie doesn’t want to bother with interrogating each and every one of them. “Which one of you boys is Cartsy?” he announces from the doorway. No one answers, but there’s one guy in the back who’s throwing a ball against the wall, and his toss stutters after Richie asks his question.

That one’s Cartsy, then, he figures.

Richie stalks across the room to the last bed, where the guy keeps tossing the ball against the wall. Release, thunk, bounce, repeat. He catches with his left hand, Richie notices; his right arm is tucked up tight against his chest.

“You’re Cartsy,” Richie says, matter-of-fact. He puts his foot up on the iron frame of Cartsy’s bed.

“Get your foot off my bed,” Cartsy says, not bothering to look at Richie or his foot.

“You’re my pilot.” Richie doesn’t move his foot.

Cartsy throws the ball harder. “And?”

“Can we talk?” Richie kicks the bed frame, which actually does get Cartsy’s attention.

Cartsy catches the ball, then turns to glare at Richie, and the first thing Richie notices is that he’s clearly older than Joner and the other pilots in the mess hall. It’s hard to tell with the dim light and the out-of-regulation beard covering Cartsy’s jaw, but Richie suspects they’re likely of an age.

It’s strange, because pilots don’t usually last that long these days.

Then again, neither do the brave men and women of the SOE, Richie reminds himself.

Richie also notices that the end of Cartsy’s right sleeve is rolled and pinned up, his arm ending just below his elbow. That would have been worlds more helpful of a descriptor than _blonde and angry_ that the pilots left him with, Richie thinks. Then again, pilots are a special bunch, Richie’s discovered over the years, and the boys in the ATA are the most peculiar of them all. Maybe Cartsy’s arm is the _least_ memorable thing about him.

All things considered, though, if a hand and an RAF career was all Cartsy lost after getting shot down, Richie thinks Cartsy should consider himself a lucky son of a bitch.

He’s not going to say it, though; he’s smarter than that. Instead, he says: “I’d like to know who’s flying me into Occupied France.”

Cartsy laughs. “Who’s flying you to fucking France? You’re stuck with me, that’s all you need to know.” He tucks the ball in the crook of his right arm and reaches up to smooth back his hair with his left hand. “You’ll live through the flight, don’t worry. You go fuck off in Lyon for a while, and if you don’t get yourself fucking caught, some other poor shit will bring you back. Questions?” Cartsy’s got a bit of a lisp, and when Richie squints, he sees a gap where most of Cartsy’s front teeth should be.

Richie folds his arms over his chest. He doesn’t know where Cartsy gets off, trying to explain how transport flights work. He just wants to make sure he isn’t going to fucking die up there with a pilot who’s already been shot down once. “I’m just making sure I’m going to be in good…” Richie stops abruptly and grimaces.

 _Hands_ , he wants to say, and he can’t, because Cartsy already thinks he’s an asshole.

“You’re in good _hand_ ,” Cartsy says, waggling the fingers of his remaining hand. “Go fuck off, you SOE shit, I’ll get you to Lyon, and if not, you can use your dying breaths to blame it on your fucking cripple pilot.”

Richie squares his shoulders. Cartsy already gets under his skin and he wants to _push_ , because that’s what Richie _does_ , that’s what makes him so good at his job. But this time, he won’t. “Well.” He lifts his chin, stares down at Cartsy, who just glares at him, unblinking. “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Fuck off,” Cartsy says, then turns back to the wall, resuming his game of catch.

*

It’s still pitch black out when Richie makes it out to the line of planes ready for their pre-dawn flights. He’s got the clothes on his back -- a plain sweater and slacks, nothing to indicate his rank or status -- and a satchel containing forged identification papers to get him through his time in Lyon.

Richie hears Cartsy before he sees him, hears him swearing up a blue streak. He follows the shouted cussing -- _you’re fucking filling the goddamn back of my plane with what--you expect me to what, fucking rebuild this piece of shit engine? we are flying to fucking France not a quick hop to Scotland--there is no fucking time for this, that SOE bastard is going to be here and then what_ \-- all the way to the end of the line, where Cartsy’s at the tail of a dinged-up Lysander, yelling at the flight engineer trying to relay new orders.

The engineer spots Richie looming in the distance and hurries off before Cartsy can yell at him any more. “Everything alright?” Richie asks mildly.

Cartsy turns around to glare at Richie. “We’re flying a fucking shot-to-hell bomber stuffed full of all your shit into Occupied France, everything is _fine_.” Cartsy smacks his fist off the body of the plane; Richie thinks he might have dented it.

“Should I find any of this reassuring?” Richie resists the urge to tug at his collar and back away slowly.

“There’s a fucking war on, Lieutenant,” Carts says. He smooths his hand over the body of the plane, patting lightly where he just hit. “Nothing is reassuring anymore.”

*

Richie spends most of take-off trying not to throw up on his shoes. “Looking green back there, SOE,” Cartsy shouts over the roar of the engines.

“Fuck off,” Richie mutters, head down between his knees. “Just avoid the goddamn turbulence and maybe I won’t lose my breakfast.”

*

Richie loses his breakfast.

Cartsy only makes fun of him a little bit.

*

Sure enough, Richie feels better after he’s lost his breakfast all over his shoes, enough so that he can start peppering Cartsy with questions.

“You know one of the other ATA boys, Quickie?” Richie asks. “A little younger than you, I think. Came over from the States. Bad wrists, couldn’t get in the service over there.”

Cartsy grunts.

“He reminds me a lot of you,” Richie continues. “First time I met him, he was so angry that he kicked a dent in the side of our plane because they scrubbed take-off for weather. Delayed our take-off even more because of it. Real fucking happy camper, that one.”

Cartsy makes a noise that Richie thinks might be a laugh. It’s a start.

*

The longer they’re in the plane together, the more Richie starts to get a strange feeling in his gut that he _knows_ Cartsy from somewhere. It’s impossible, though; based on looks alone, Cartsy’s impossible to forget.

“You sure we never crossed paths when you were RAF?” Richie asks.

Cartsy shakes his head. “Never did VIP then,” he answers. “Too busy shooting shit down to carry you boys around.”

Richie leans forward, sets his hand on Cartsy’s right shoulder. “You _sure_?” Richie shivers as his fingers dig in, and he rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the sudden chill.

Cartsy glances back at Richie, really takes him in for a long moment, long enough that Richie squirms in his seat. “I think I’d remember you,” Carsty finally says.

“Is that a compliment?” Richie shouldn’t press his luck, but the words just come out before he can stop himself.

Cartsy snorts, rolls his eyes, faces forward again. “You tell yourself whatever you want. Sir.”

Richie draws his hand back to his lap. “Gonna say yes, then.” Cartsy laughs, and Richie grins.

As they settle in for the last leg of the flight, the feeling of the familiar doesn’t let up, though, and it bothers Richie, this feeling of _knowing_ in the back of his head, but he locks it away.

*

Richie’s had mild success with getting Cartsy to talk to him, mostly about the outdated pictures they sometimes show on base, so he decides to try his luck with something a little more personal.

“Can I ask how it happened?”

Cartsy’s shoulders twitch, and he takes a while to answer. “Engine died on a shitty Spitfire, up over Devon. I went down, got a little…” He trails off and lifts his right arm, sleeve pinned closed neatly just below his elbow. “Mangled.”

“Huh.” Richie scrubs a hand across his face. “Joner made it sound like you were shot down.”

“Joner jumped to that conclusion, I’m not telling him he’s wrong. Good kid, Joner. They’re all good kids. But not so bright.” Cartsy tugs at the front of his bomber jacket and shifts in his seat. “Probably would have been a little more mangled if I’d been shot down.”

“Probably,” Richie agrees. “Just the hand? Or…? You’ve got a limp.”

“Thanks for the fucking notice, I didn’t know,” Cartsy says, but there’s no anger in it. “It’s a knee thing, it’s fine. All the right parts are there, I promise.”

Richie snorts. “And the teeth? That the crash too, or…?”

Cartsy lifts his good hand from the controls of the plane and touches his face; it almost looks like an automatic reaction more than anything thoughtful. “No, that was…” He shakes his head, then drops his hand back to the controls. “Sometimes you say the wrong thing to the wrong person, is all.”

Richie knows all about that. Saying the wrong thing got Richie pulled out of the Army, after all. Of course, it also got him slotted into the SOE instead, and here he is, ready to drop into Lyon with an eerily familiar pilot.

Life works in strange ways.

*

Cartsy reaches back and taps Richie with his right arm. “Descending soon.”

“Ugh.” Richie presses his hands to his face. “I think I’d almost rather jump.”

“I’ve already got to wash the plane out,” Cartsy points out. “So please, by all means, feel free to lose it again.”

Richie puts his head down between his knees. “Asshole,” he mutters. “Just get us down safe. I’ll wash out your fucking plane.”

*

Turns out, Richie doesn’t have anything left to bring up onto his shoes or the floor of Cartsy’s plane. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t practically ooze out of the plane and back onto solid ground the second Cartsy’s killed the engine.

Richie presents a less than ideal picture of health, heaving weakly, folded over on his knees on the ground. He doesn’t know why flying gets to him so badly, but it does, and he feels stupid for it. If a guy like Cartsy can brush himself off after crashing and go back to flying, one-handed and bum knee and all, Richie should be able to stomach one stupid fucking flight.

Richie hears Cartsy’s feet hit the ground, then feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and solid. “Welcome to Lyon,” he says in French, and Richie jerks his head up to stare. “I hope you enjoyed the flight. _”_ Richie thinks Cartsy’s French is better than his; at least, his accent sounds much more natural. He should have asked Cartsy what he did before he joined up with the RAF, but there’s no time for that now.

“Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work, you sound like that,” Richie says weakly.

Cartsy shakes his head and squeezes Richie’s shoulder. “I’d rather be up in the air. I wouldn’t last long in your job. A little too memorable, I think.” He grins broadly, tongue poking out where his front teeth should be. “A toothless, one-handed SOE shit? Fucking Gestapo would be on me before I even had boots on the ground with the Resistance.”

Richie thinks blending in might be easier than Cartsy’s suggesting, with his blonde hair and light eyes. Richie fits in with the farmers and the rural boys cobbling together the Resistance; Cartsy, meanwhile, could probably be passed off as a Messerschmitt-piloting war hero, if he had to.

Richie tries not to think about Cartsy’s blonde hair and lean frame. That’s just asking for trouble.

“They can fix that these days, you know,” Richie says. He sits up and taps his own front teeth with his first finger.

“I like being memorable, what can I say?” Cartsy pats Richie’s shoulder, then steps away, toward the rickety barn serving as a command center.

 

*

 

Richie’s walking with a limp and he’s pretty sure he’s separated his shoulder, but it’s been more than a month and he’s ready to get the fuck out of Lyon. He is getting on the next plane that lands; to hell with where it’s going. He will hitchhike back to civilization from fucking Lossiemouth, he doesn’t _care_.

Eugénie hasn’t been able to raise anyone at Maidenhead yet to confirm a ride out, but Richie is going back to the airfield. He will go to the airfield himself every day if he goddamn has to.

It takes an extra week of waiting until a message comes through for Richie. “There’s a transport, got in last night. They can take you back today, and thank God,” Eugénie says, handing over the decoded message. “They’re getting very tired of seeing your face on the farm so often.”

“Well, I’m tired of seeing them, so.” Richie shrugs with his good shoulder. “Is the kid driving me up, or am I walking?”

“Etienne’s got the car out today. You’re on your own two feet, unless you can find a bicycle.” She casts a look at Richie’s feet, how he’s hardly putting any weight on his left leg. “Best start now, if you don’t want to miss your chance.”

Richie shouldn’t be mean to Eugénie, especially considering how hard she’s been working to get him a flight out of Lyon, but it’s a constant battle anyway. “I’m going, I’m going,” he mutters. “Take care of yourself, Eugénie.”

She casts a smile at him. “Until next time.”

*

“I should have known this pick-up was for you.”

It’s Cartsy, scuffing his toe into the ground in front of a Spitfire that looks like it’s seen better days. He’s covered in grease, tapping a wrench against his thigh, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

Richie finds himself inexplicably glad to see him.

“You look like shit,” Richie says, almost fondly.

“Not looking so good yourself.” Cartsy nods at Richie’s left arm, bound up in a makeshift sling. “Between the two of us, we just might have all four limbs.” He grins and shows off a mouth full of teeth, much to Richie’s surprise. “I’m prettier, though.”

“Fuck,” Richie says through laughter. “Thought you were going for memorable.”

“Some dumb fuck told me I could get my face fixed.” He runs his tongue over his new teeth. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Well. It looks good.” Richie scrubs his right hand against his face, beard scratching against his calloused hand. He is ready to be done with France; he wants a hot shower and a straight razor and he never wants to have to sleep in a bale of hay again. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Cartsy looks away, shifty. “Brought the new wireless girl in last night.” He drops to a crouch, sets aside his wrench before he begins pawing in the toolbox. “Just felt like staying, I guess.”

Richie nudges the toolbox with his foot. “Bullshit. You lot never overnight on the mainland.”

“Does it matter? I’m here now.” Cartsy stares hard at the toolbox. “I was working on this piece of shit when someone said some SOE bastard needed a lift back out.” He wipes his hand on his trousers, then pulls out a screwdriver before standing back up. “Rumor was right, because here you are.” His words are gruff, but one corner of his mouth quirks up; Richie hates how charmed he feels.

Richie eyes the toolbox instead of spending another second looking at Cartsy. “This scrap heap ready to fly?”

Cartsy steps aside and kicks the rear tire of the plane. “Ready enough. I need to clean up, then it’s back home for you. Try not to throw up in my plane this time.”

Richie can’t make any promises.

*

Richie didn’t eat anything other than thin, watered-down oatmeal that morning.

Richie still throws up in Cartsy’s plane.

*

The debrief is miserable. Lyon was a mess when Richie arrived, and it was a mess when Richie left, and there’s not much anyone can do about it, not that that matters to the rest of the SOE. They want to know who Richie talked to and how many operatives have been lost and how many times Richie _acted outside of the parameters of his assignment_ , like that’s an actual fucking thing anyone should care about, when it meant he got the job done.

Whenever he stumbles back out into the yard, squinting into the harsh light of day after hours of recounting all the gritty details of his time in Lyon, the first thing he sees is Cartsy, leaning up against a fence.

“What are you doing here?” Richie pulls his jacket tighter around him and comes to a stop, an arm’s length away from Cartsy. He’s aware that he’s shivering with no good reason, but he can’t stop.

Cartsy looks down at his feet. “I--” He pauses, exhales. “I don’t really know, I just felt--” Cartsy scrubs his hand against the back of his neck. “Feet just brought me here, I guess.”

Richie frowns. No one’s feet just bring them over to this building. Everyone ignores them, the small cluster of spies and liars and thieves clustered together on one side of the base. “That so?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Cartsy looks up, fixes Richie with a sharp look. “Besides, you look like shit. Everything go fine in there?” Cartsy jerks his head towards the administration building that Richie just left.

“It’s fine. There’s -- you know how these things go for guys like me, right? There’s a lot to go over, when you land back here.” Richie’s pale, sweaty. He still badly needs to shave. He wants to sleep for a very, very long time. “They want to know more things than I can ever even remember. They care more about the bad things that happened than the good.”

Richie clutches his good arm to his chest. It was easy to forget what he had to do in Lyon when he was just struggling to get out of the country, but having to sit there and recite every last detail for another officer who will never know what it’s like to drop in behind enemy lines -- that’s too much. It’s too real.

Cartsy turns towards Richie. He reaches out, and his fingers come to rest on Richie’s arm. His hand is warm against the threadbare sleeve of Richie’s sweater.

Richie wants to pull away, but he doesn’t.

“Do you need to talk about it?”

Richie looks up and arches his eyebrows. “You a medic now, too? You gonna make me talk about my feelings?”

Cartsy shrugs. He doesn’t pull his hand away. “Fuck off, I just thought…” He stops, breathes in. “I was a soldier, too, once, remember? I saw my share of shit. If your CO’s not going to listen, I mean… sometimes it helps, is all I’m saying.” His fingers tighten around Richie’s arm, holding him in place. “You want to talk about sleeping in a hay bale, or killing a man or whatever’s got you looking like that, looking like you’re running scared, you come find me.”

He squeezes Richie’s arm one last time then lets go, turns and walks off.

Richie has no _idea_ what the fuck just happened.

*

Four nights, Richie’s back in his bunk in Maidenhead, and it’s four nights that he wakes up, cursing and shivering and pressing his hands against his chest, because he swears his heart’s going to beat right out of him.

Four nights of dreams of unblinking eyes and clammy flesh and bloodstains he can’t quite wash out of his clothing.

Four nights of dreams of a rickety wooden platform and a jeering crowd, and Cartsy, of all the fucking people, telling him that shit’s going to be fine.

On the fifth night, Richie just decides to stay awake, but even then, he nods off only to shout himself awake, jarring him out of a too-real memory of trying to get his operatives to outrun the Gestapo.

Richie _needs_ to sleep.

Richie can’t sleep.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, then throws the covers off and starts to look for his shoes.

Cartsy said to come find him, and so that’s what Richie’s going to do. It doesn’t make a lot of sense -- Cartsy doesn’t even particularly seem to like him, most of the time -- but there’s that voice in the back of Richie’s head that says he _knows_ Cartsy, that part of him that keeps dreaming of Cartsy with a bloody smile and soothing words, and that part of him is telling him to go to Cartsy.

‘You come find me,’ Cartsy said, and so Richie does. The entire walk over to B building, Richie tries to convince himself to turn back, but before he knows it, he’s walking to the last bed in the row. Cartsy’s rolled over on his side, and all Richie sees is an expanse of pale skin, with the way Cartsy’s kicked down his itchy wool RAF-issued blanket.

This is a mistake, Richie thinks, but he doesn’t do the smart thing and walk away. Richie’s never been good at doing the smart thing.

“Hey,” he whispers. His voice sounds loud in the barracks, too loud, and he cringes and waits for someone to shush him. “Cartsy.”

Cartsy grumbles and rolls to his back. “What?” he asks. He snags the corner of the blanket in the bend of his right elbow and pulls it up.

“Are you awake?”

“Fuck off,” Cartsy says, but he’s sitting up anyway and squinting at Richie in the dark. “What are you doing here?”

Richie catches himself staring at Cartsy, mostly naked as the blanket slips down to pool in his lap. Even in the dark, he’s sure that Cartsy can track the way Riche’s gaze sweeps over him, and Richie forces himself to look away.

It’s one thing to be the very definition of an open secret in the SOE -- hell, half of the reason he wound up in the SOE was that too many people knew that he’d rather spend his time flirting with the soldiers than the girls on base, so the Army didn’t want him anymore -- but this is _different_.

It occurs to him that Cartsy’s waiting for him to say something. “I can’t sleep,” he says, voice rough.

The silence between them is so long and Richie starts to feel stupid, like maybe he shouldn’t have come at all, but Cartsy _said_ , and Richie could really use a friend right now.

“Christ.” Cartsy scrubs his hand against his face. “Alright, give me a minute.”

Richie glances up to see Cartsy lean over the side of the bed to fish underneath for a shirt and shoes; he drops his gaze to the floor again.

He’s being stupid, he thinks. He just wants to talk. He just wants to forget Lyon.

“Come on, outside,” Cartsy says as he does up the last buttons on his shirt. He pushes himself up off of the bed and leads them silently through B building, then outside, past the other barracks, past the mess hall, past the administration buildings.

“Where are we going?” Richie asks as they get further away from the rest of the base.

“I have a spot,” Cartsy says. “Come along.” Richie’s got no choice but to follow.

They walk out past the airfield, leaving the handful of battered planes behind, and head up a hill to a crop of trees. “Talk,” he says to Richie.

“Seriously?”

“Well, it’s talking until you feel better, or getting really fucking drunk, and.” Cartsy shrugs, then points to a spot on the ground under the trees. “Rations, you know. Hard to get good booze these days, so, talking it is.”

“You make all the boys talk about their feelings?” Richie sits down, tucks his knees to his chest.

“Nah.” Cartsy follows, his long legs sprawling out in front of him as he eases himself down. “Just the ones who look like they’re going to crawl out of their skin.”

“It’s not that easy,” Richie says.

Cartsy leans up against the tree. “Why can’t you sleep? What’s going through your head?”

Richie swallows heavily. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

There was a boy in Lyon, not really much more than a kid. There was a boy, and he had the Resistance’s plans, and he shouldn’t have, so Richie had to stop him.

There was a boy in Lyon, and Richie can’t breathe a word of it, not to Cartsy, not to anyone, because it’s one thing to take down a soldier, but taking down a _kid_ makes you a monster, he thinks.

“I told you I was RAF before this. Back when I was flying for real, not this transport shit, sometimes I got so close to the planes I was chasing, I could see the other pilots. And I could watch them as they realized what was coming. I got to watch as I blew these kids right out of the sky. My face was the last one those boys saw before they went down.” Cartsy rests his hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Our jobs are shit. This war is shit. We do what we can.”

Richie knows that deep in his bones, but sometimes, like right now, it keeps him up at night.

“Do you ever think--” Richie starts, then sighs. He leans forward and rests his forehead on his knees. He doesn’t know how to finish his sentence, he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“Richie.” Cartsy’s thumb digs into Richie’s neck; Richie tips his head to the side, leaning in to the touch. “What is it?”

“Lyon was hard. I’ve been doing this for a long while, and this was the hardest it’s been.” He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of Cartsy’s fingers, rough and calloused, against his skin. “The whole time I was in Lyon, I couldn’t stop thinking that I shouldn’t be there. I felt like I should be somewhere else.”

Cartsy blows out a breath. “Where, then?”

 _Here_ , Richie thinks, and he’s stunned with how easily the answer comes to him. _Here, with you_. He doesn’t think he should say that out loud, though. “I don’t know,” he says instead. He pulls away from Cartsy’s grasp and flops down in the damp grass. “Just tell me a story,” he says. “Tell me a story about flying, Cartsy.”

Cartsy stretches out next to Richie. “I was nine, the first time I went up in a plane,” he says. “My mum saved and saved to pay for me to go up on a joyride, bit of a lark, just something to do on a Sunday afternoon, but she didn’t count on me falling in love with the sky. I never felt so free, seeing the whole coastline beneath me.”

Richie rolls in towards Cartsy as he talks and slowly, very slowly, reaches out to touch him, just the barest brush of his fingers against Cartsy’s shirt.

Cartsy doesn’t move away, which is -- well, it’s something, at least. “You’ve gotta find something that makes you feel like that, you know? Breathless, like the whole world’s yours.” Cartsy reaches down, pats Richie’s hand. “Even when everything goes to shit, like Lyon, you’ve gotta find something that’s yours. Gotta find your sky, Richie.”

*

Richie wakes up the next morning in his own bed.

There’s a note tucked into his shoes, scrawled on a corner of a page torn from Cartsy’s flight notebook. _Find your sky_ is all it says.

Richie folds the paper up very carefully and tucks it into his pocket.

*

Richie knows how the ATA works, but that doesn’t mean he’s not annoyed to find out that Cartsy’s been shipped back just days after their conversation. It was nice, thinking maybe he had a friend on base, until he got sent away again.

So Richie’s going to find him. If there’s anything he’s good at, it’s finding people.

One of the pilots from that first day in the mess hall is standing outside smoking. He’s the one who looks like he should be in the pictures, all blinding white teeth and gently waved hair.

“Which one are you?” Richie asks.

“He said you’d probably come looking,” the kid says.

That’s not an answer. “Your fucking _name_ , pilot.” Richie demands.

“Pears is fine.” Pears stubs the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and tucks the remains back into a case in his pocket. “Cartsy got pulled for some ferry runs, moving planes around, nothing exciting.”

“When’s he going to be back?”

Pears shrugs. “Who knows? They might pull him to go bring your sorry ass back from France again, for all I know.” He folds his arms over his chest and eyes Richie in a way that feels insubordinate, inappropriate. “You sure got strange about him fast.”

“It’s my fucking job to be strange,” Richie says. “If I need to get a message out to him…?”

“Me, Toff, Joner. One of us will get it out. But they’re always going to send Cartsy back here, so you can leave it for him on the board if you have to.”

“Fine.” Richie does an about face and walks away. He thinks he hears Pears laughing behind him.

*

Everyone thinks Richie’s too fucked up from Lyon to be sent on any new assignments.

For once, Richie isn’t actually going to argue with that -- Cartsy’s pep talk didn’t exactly make the nightmares go away. So Richie grinds through his days on a hair trigger, snapping at anyone who gets too close or who asks too many questions.

Getting in shouting matches with people at the airfield, as it turns out, isn’t exactly the best way to get sent back out to the field, and so Richie stays grounded, and starts keeping to himself, especially with Cartsy gone.

Sure, he’s got Joner and Toff and Pears, but they’re so painfully young and the way they look at him, fear and curiosity in their eyes, is enough to make Richie keep to his little private cabin, all by himself.

It’s Cartsy who finds him two weeks later, just walks in to Richie’s bunk while Richie’s half asleep. Cartsy sits on the edge of Richie’s bed and kicks off his shoes.

“This is the longest I’ve been on _ground_ since I left,” he complains. “I love flying but I am so _sick_ of fucking flying right now.”

Richie props himself up on one elbow and looks at Cartsy. He looks even thinner than before, with dark circles under his eyes. He looks defeated. It’s not a good look on Cartsy, but Richie’s still glad to see him.

“Welcome back,” Richie says. “It’s late. Now go to sleep.”

“I can’t.” Cartsy rubs at his right arm, right where it ends, and winces. “They fucking-- they just send us out there unarmed, with nothing, and someday, trying to outrun the fucking Germans isn’t going to be enough. They’ll let me fly fucking bombers all over fucking Europe, but not _armed_ , because I don’t have fucking enough of _those_ anymore.”

Richie blinks, then blinks again. Cartsy’s so angry that it looks like he’s practically ready to jump out of his skin. He’s always so calm, so collected, that the change is jarring. “Cartsy,” Richie says slowly, trying to get his attention.

“I could be making a difference, I could still be up there doing what I was _supposed_ to be doing, but--”

“ _Cartsy_ ,” Richie repeats. He sits up and wraps one hand around Cartsy’s arm, fingers digging in.

“--they’re sending us out there because they don’t want to waste _real_ soldiers on _transport_ , so they put together a bunch of people like _me,_ and they’re sending us out there to fucking _die_ , and--”

“ _Jeffrey_ ,” Richie snaps, shaking him a little. Cartsy stops, goes still, save for turning very slowly to look at Richie.

“Lie down,” Richie says softly. “It was a shitty mission, I get it. Lie down, sleep it off, big guy.” Richie lies back down and tugs Cartsy with him. Cartsy stays stiff as a board in Richie’s small bed as Richie pulls the blanket over the both of them.

This is a terrible idea. This is the _worst_ fucking idea that Richie’s ever had.

“You’re fine now,” Richie whispers. “You’re fine.”

The room is eerily quiet except for Cartsy; Richie’s holding his breath, so it’s just Cartsy and his stuttering breaths for a long time. “Tell me a story,” Cartsy says finally. “About anything.”

Under the blankets, Richie feels Cartsy’s fingers just barely brush his side. Richie doesn’t move. He hardly even dares to exhale.

“I was eight,” Richie starts, “the first time I ran away from home. I don’t even remember why now, only that I packed a bag, stole some coins from my mum, and walked out the front door.”

Cartsy rolls close and presses his face to Richie’s shoulder. Richie doesn’t move.

“Getting caught didn’t stop me from trying again. I think I wanted to see the world, maybe. Wanted to get away from my dad, who knows, anymore.”

Cartsy’s hand finds Richie’s. Very slowly, he slides their fingers together. Richie doesn’t move.

“I think I tried to run away every month for a year when I was ten, and I left as soon as I was old enough.” He dares to squeeze Cartsy’s hand in his. “Maybe home never felt like _home_ for me. Maybe I felt like there was something I was missing. It’s always felt like that.”

 _Cartsy_ feels like home.

Cartsy’s nose slides up Richie’s neck. Cartsy’s lips, rough and chapped, brush against Richie’s skin. Richie tries _so hard_ not to move. He thinks he does anyway. He _definitely_ hears himself sigh, sounding a little broken.

“Do you ever feel like something’s supposed to happen?” Cartsy whispers against Richie’s neck. “Like you’re in a place for a reason?”

Richie squeezes Cartsy’s hand again. “All the fucking time,” he says.

“When did you stop feeling like something was missing? When did things start to feel right for you?”

Richie swallows heavily. It doesn’t _matter_ that Cartsy’s pressed up against him in his bed, it doesn’t matter that they’re alone; this still feels so very dangerous. “After Lyon” he admits. “After Lyon, when you-- I can’t explain, but-- it doesn’t have to mean--” He stutters his way through it, never quite getting a clear thought out, hoping that maybe Cartsy will misunderstand him.

Cartsy presses closer; Richie can feel him up the length of his body. Cartsy’s so tall, so solid. Richie never wants to leave this place.

“I kept having this dream, when I was stuck up north,” he says into Richie’s skin. “I had this dream where you and me--” He cuts himself off, chuckles quietly. “It was a miserable, shitty life, but you made it worth living, and every fucking time, I’d wake up, and instead of thinking why the fuck am I dreaming about that SOE shit, I’d think: I want to go back _home_.” Cartsy presses closer to Richie. “This is home. _You’re_ fucking home. You fucked me up,” Cartsy says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but Richie thinks it is anyway. “You changed everything.”

“Shut up,” Richie says. "Don't talk like that."

He still doesn’t move. He still doesn’t pull away.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever.” Cartsy pushes himself up with his right elbow to look down at Richie. “I feel like we’ve been here before. I was _fine_ and then I _wasn’t_ and--”

Cartsy still hasn’t let go of Richie’s hand.

“Fuck,” Cartsy whispers. He raises his eyes, looking at the ceiling, _pleading_ at the ceiling, then leans down and kisses Richie.

It takes Richie by surprise -- it _shouldn’t_ , but it does -- and it takes him a moment to convince himself that it’s okay if he kisses back. The sky isn’t going to fall, the world isn’t going to end.

Richie’s slow to return the kiss, but he does, lips parting against Cartsy’s. There’s nothing tentative about the way that Cartsy kisses; in fact, there’s something almost desperate about it, the way that Cartsy hovers over him, pressing Richie’s hand into the thin mattress, working one knee between Richie’s legs.

He works his free hand up between them, first fisting it in Cartsy’s shirt, then reaching to cup his jaw, then up, twisting his fingers in Cartsy’s hair.

Cartsy pulls back just long enough to look at Richie. He looks relaxed. He doesn’t look haunted anymore.

Cartsy smiles, and Richie pulls him back in.

*

The weather’s shit, which means that Cartsy’s grounded, and Richie still goes pale when anyone asks him about Lyon, so he’s grounded, too.

Slowly, Cartsy’s _stuff_ starts making it into Richie’s bunk. His flight jacket hangs off the back of Richie’s chair, his spare uniform is folded neatly on the dresser, his pilot’s notebook is open to a diagram of an Anson, with a sheet of cryptically scribbled notes stuffed between the pages.

It’s one little room that everyone else steers clear of -- Richie hears the whispers about _that SOE shit, wonder what he did to get grounded_ from everyone else stationed at Maidenhead -- but it’s starting to look like home.

More often than not, Cartsy slides into bed behind Richie, long after the weather clears up and Cartsy should have been back on duty. He’s all long limbs and warm skin pressed up tight against Richie’s back and for just that tiny sliver of time, Richie thinks that everything is _perfect_.

There are a thousand questions that Richie wants to ask under the cover of night, but he doesn’t ask any of them. He just laces his fingers in Cartsy’s and tucks their hands up against his chest, right over his heart.

*

Richie wakes up to Cartsy’s teeth scraping against his collarbone.

“Good morning,” Richie says through the hitch in his breathing. Cartsy lifts his head and smiles, then goes back to what he was doing.

“What’s the special occasion?” Richie asks as Cartsy’s fingers slip beneath the elastic of his pyjamas, running over the rise of his hip.

Cartsy doesn’t answer at first. He’s too busy mouthing his way down Richie’s chest. He stops for just long enough to say “I’ve got to ferry someone into Germany today,” then tugs at Richie’s pyjamas. “Lift your hips,” he says as he taps Richie’s side. “Help out, will you?”

Richie _does_ , because when Cartsy asks him to do something, he _does it_ , but he blinks in confusion. “Germany?”

“Uh huh.” Cartsy pulls the pyjamas down as best he can. “It shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I don’t care, tell them not to-- _fuck_.” Richie wants to argue -- he doesn’t want Cartsy being sent unarmed into Germany, not now, not _ever_ \-- but Cartsy’s got Richie’s dick in his mouth and he can’t think straight anymore as Cartsy takes him apart.

It doesn’t occur to Richie until much, much later that maybe Cartsy was trying to say goodbye.

Just in case.

*

It takes three weeks of Cartsy being gone before Richie feels that itch under his skin, that pull that says he needs to get off the airfield and back to work, no matter how unfit for duty he really is.

Richie tacks up a note to the flight board for Cartsy, then sweet-talks his way onto a new mission in Lyon. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than sitting around and waiting.

On the ground in Lyon, Richie spends weeks trying to convince an SS- _Hauptscharführer_ to change sides, only to have to shoot himon the street in the open before he can shoot Richie.

Richie watches him bleed out, then shoots him again, just because he can.

Richie has to bribe his way onto a ferry flight that same night, he has to get out of Lyon before he gets caught.

Back at Maidenhead, the letter for Cartsy’s still there. Of course it is.

Their jobs are shit. This war is shit. He does what he can.

*

Quickie stops over to swap out a damaged Spitfire for a new one, fresh out of the factory. He’s over in B building with the rest of the pilots, Richie hears, so he goes to track him down.

Joner’s sitting next to him, eyes wide as Quickie talks loudly about flying blind in a damaged Mosquito. Richie gives them a moment before interrupting. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Joner.” Richie drops down onto the last bunk in the row: Cartsy’s bed, not that Cartsy’s there to use it. Joner gives him a look, lips tugged down into a frown. “Whatever Quickie’s telling you is probably a lie.”

Quickie laughs and darts out one leg to kick Richie in the shin. “Haven’t seen you in ages. You losing your breakfast in this kid’s plane, too?”

Richie scowls, but Joner lets out a short burst of laughter. “Just the once,” Joner says, which is true. It was that last trip back from Lyon, where Richie lost his dinner all over his blood-spattered boots. “Usually it’s Cartsy flying his ass around, so the rest of us don’t have to deal with it.”

“Cartsy, he’s the one with the…” Quickie raises up his right arm and pulls his hand back inside the sleeve of his jacket. “Yeah?”

Richie doesn’t answer. He usually doesn’t, when people start talking about Cartsy. If he doesn’t force his expression blank, he’s afraid of what’s going to show, so he just -- he just _doesn’t_.

Joner steps in for him. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Thought so. Haven’t met him, but I’ve heard stories. You know, they say he kept turning down ferry assignments for a while, didn’t want to leave Maidenhead.”

“Huh.” Joner casts a look at Richie, who stares straight up at the ceiling. “No, he’s, well…”

“Cartsy flew off to Germany,” Richie says, hating how rough his voice sounds. “Transport, VIP, hasn’t been back.”

Quickie and Joner exchange a glance. “Pilot’s rumor -- cover your ears, Richie -- pilot’s rumor has it that Cartsy had a girl up here, some SOE bird embedded in with the pilots. Didn’t want to leave her, so he kept finding reasons not to take flights until they made him go to Germany. Didn’t give him the option to decline on that one.”

Richie stands up abruptly, smooths out the blankets on the bed -- _Cartsy’s_ bed, even if he hasn’t used it in ages -- then walks out.

“Richie,” Joner calls out, but Richie keeps walking.

*

Richie takes an assignment in Scotland, goes up to train a new SOE girl, yells at her for so long that he makes her cry.

Richie goes to London, goes overboard on an interrogation, and is ordered off to the countryside on a few days’ leave to _cool down_ before he hurts someone.

Richie goes back to Maidenhead instead and demands to be sent back to Lyon.

At least in Lyon, things made sense.

At least in Lyon, he didn’t have to see a frayed envelope addressed to _J. Carter_ every time he went past the flight board.

At least in Lyon, he was too busy trying to stay alive to think much about Cartsy.

Richie doesn’t get to go to Lyon. Instead, his commanding officer flies down -- Kopi, of all people, had the flight -- so they can talk.

Kopi looks marginally guilty when he spots Richie across the mess hall. “Sutter’s in the admin building,” Kopi says. “You should find him before he finds you.”

Richie pushes around his rations on his plate. “You sure seem to know an awful lot.”

“I listen.” Kopi shrugs. “People still think I don’t understand.”

Richie shoves his plate away. “Here, I’m going to -- I’m going to go.”

*

“Michael.” Sutter points at the chair across from his desk, but Richie declines. Sutter’s lips pull down into a deep frown. “I’ve been told you’ve been having issues.”

Richie clasps his hands behind his back. “Some people might say that.”

“Are they right?”

“I’ve been getting the job done, haven’t I?”

Sutter makes a noise that isn’t quite agreement. “You’ve been doing _something_. You haven’t always been very good at it.”

In an ideal world, Richie would apologize for being distracted. He’d try to get back on Sutter’s good side.

Instead, Richie shrugs. “Are you sending me back to Lyon or not?”

“You’re a wanted man in France, Michael. You’re not going back to Lyon.” Sutter presses his palms flat against his desk. “You’re staying put here. I’ve got enough on my hands as it is.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Sutter raises an eyebrow, considering. “Keep an ear open with the pilots,” he says finally. “One of their boys went missing over in Germany, now we’re hearing he’s stuck over there. We’re hoping maybe he manages to get a message out through them. It’s one of those transport boys, one of the banged up ones.”

Very slowly, Richie’s eyebrows inch up. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. This downed ATA pilot probably isn’t Cartsy. But…

“You got a name? Description? Last time anyone saw him?”

Richie must sound too eager, because Sutter’s frown grows even deeper. “The one with the…” Sutter shrugs his shoulder, flexes the fingers on his right hand. “Old RAF boy, missing some parts. I don’t know the rest.”

Riche grips his knees tight, leans forward in his chair. Cartsy’s still the only one-armed pilot he’s ever met.  “Is anyone going in after him?”

“Not yet,” Sutter says. “Too dangerous.”

“Huh,” Richie says. “Pity.”

*

After leaving, it takes twenty minutes to track down Kopi and drag him away from the other pilots.

It takes another two days for Richie to convince Kopi that he needs help, and that Kopi’s the only pilot for the job.

But by the time the sun goes down, Kopi shows up at Michael’s door with a set of coordinates and a tip on a plane that no one’s going to miss.

*

After they land in Germany and assemble a team, Richie and Kopi go to work. It takes three weeks of sneaking around and separating \rumors from truth, but it turns out there is a one-handed, gap-toothed, _very_ angry pilot being held in the city center. As the story goes, no one quite knows what to do with the pilot.

Turns out, he speaks German.

Turns out, he’s a pretty good liar, bought himself some time by managing to convince the right people that maybe he _belongs_ in Germany. Shot down in the Blitz, he’s telling people. Can't remember his name, but sure as fuck remembers how to fly. Stole a Spitfire from the Brits to get back over.

Richie can’t help it, he beams with pride whenever he hears the story.

No one’s pleased to have this unidentified pilot lingering around, and the way Richie hears it, the Germans are pretty much ready to just rid themselves of their problem, so Richie needs to act fast. 

“Do you think this is going to work?” Richie asks Kopi, the night before he’s supposed to lead his rag-tag band of collaborators in.

Kopi shrugs. “I’m just a pilot, I’m only helping under duress.” He smiles, though, and continues. “I think, for anyone else, this plan would not work. For you?” He taps his first finger on the spot on Richie’s map labeled with an X. “For you, nothing is going to get in your way.”

*

The first thing Cartsy says when Richie raps on the bars to his cell is: “I’m losing my fucking mind.”

It doesn’t matter, though. Richie can’t stop grinning. It’s _stupid_ , because Cartsy looks like _shit_ , but Richie doesn’t care about the black eye or the scraggly beard or the way that Cartsy’s clothes hang off of him or the fact that he can’t even curl the fingers of his left hand.

No, that’s not true.

Richie cares a _lot_. Richie is going to find who did this to Cartsy and kill that person, no questions about it.

But Cartsy’s _alive_.

“Hey, Cartsy,” Richie says. He’s trying to stay calm, but his heart’s about to beat right out of his chest. “Ready to come home?”

Cartsy blinks at him. “Jesus Christ, you’re real.”

Richie looks down at himself. “I certainly hope so. Otherwise, this is going to be really awkward for both of us.” He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and gets to work, trying to find the right ones to unlock the door to Cartsy’s cell.

Cartsy lists forward and peers at Richie. “What are you doing?”

Richie pauses and looks at Cartsy, huddled under a threadbare blanket. “Going to get you out of here and take you home, babe.”

“Oh.” Cartsy tries to grab at the blanket with his left hand, but he can’t even manage to close his fingers around the edge. “Home?”

Richie swallows heavily. He can’t look at Cartsy too long without feeling the overwhelming desire to murder every last SS fuck he sees. Richie is going to burn this building to the fucking ground when he is done with it. No one does this to Cartsy. _No one._ “Home, Cartsy. You and me, we are getting the fuck out of here. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but we’re getting out of here.”

“Good luck.” Cartsy closes his eyes and slumps up against the wall. “This place, it’s a fucking fortress.”

“I got in, didn’t I?” Richie unlocks the top lock, then begins searching for the second key. “Open your eyes, Cartsy. Stay with me. I can’t do this by myself.”

Cartsy shrugs -- or, at least, he tries to, but his right shoulder only twitches, and his left stays stubbornly rolled forward. “I’m not much help.”

“Sure you are. Just… talk to me, will you?” Richie asks gently. “Tell me a story, Cartsy.”

Cartsy opens his eyes at that, as much as he can, then stares at Richie like he’s seeing him for the first time. “I kept dreaming about you,” he whispers. “ _Us_ , really. Some dream version of us. We were -- we were hiding, at a party. You kept telling me it would be okay, but I knew -- I knew I’d never see you again.”

“I’m here now,” Richie says as he pulls a file from his pocket, shaving away at the keys in his hand. “It was just a dream.”

“You kissed me,” Cartsy blurts. “You kissed me and you said you loved me, and you said that’s why you had to go.”

Richie shoves the reshaped key into the lock and twists. “Well.” The lock jams; Richie wonders if it’s prudent to just try to shoot through the fucking thing instead of wasting all this time. “I had a dumb fucking reason for leaving, in your dream, but I’m here now, and maybe that’s why I fucking broke in here for you.” Richie pulls the key out and files away at it again. “I don’t know what you’re dreaming about, Cartsy, but there’s a reason I asked to come here after you.”

“I didn’t know -- I thought maybe -- I didn’t think anyone was going to come for me.” Cartsy speaks slowly, like every word causes him pain. “But I hoped it would be you. I hoped you were more than just a dream.”

Richie exhales, feels his breath quaver as he blows it out. “Keep talking to me, Cartsy, we’re almost out.”

Cartsy coughs, a sick rattle in his lungs, then wheezes out: “Who sent you?”

“Sutter.” Richie fits the key into the lock again; this time, it opens and the door squeaks on its hinges. “Pretty sure he was hoping I’d find you or die trying.”

Cartsy looks up as Richie pries the door open. There’s a familiar, shrewd look on his face. “Would you have?”

The door squeals as Richie opens it. “What, die trying?” Cartsy nods slowly. “Cartsy, you gotta _know_ I’d go to fucking hell and back for you.”

“Huh.” The blanket slips down off of Cartsy’s shoulder and Richie frowns, seeing up close just how thin Cartsy’s gotten. “Well, you’ve found hell, at least.”

*

Richie can’t get Cartsy out to the ferry point like this, he learns quickly. Cartsy can hardly walk; he drags his right leg after him, and he’s too weak to be able to clutch to Richie for balance for very long.

“There’s a safehouse,” Richie says, propping a wheezing Cartsy up against his side. “About ten minutes from here.”

He doesn’t want to ask if Cartsy can make it. He knows that Cartsy’s going to say yes, no matter how much pain he’s in.

Cartsy just presses his face against Richie’s shoulder for a moment, then nods. “Let’s keep going.”

It should take ten minutes for Richie, but getting Cartsy there at least doubles their time. Cartsy doesn’t say anything, but by the time they’re outside the flat, he’s gone chalk-pale and tears leak from the corners of his eyes.

“We’re here, we’re here,” Richie murmurs, settling Cartsy against the wall.

“Richie.” Cartsy presses his face against the cool brick. “You should go without me. I’m slowing you down.”

Richie raps on the door in a complicated pattern, then turns to Cartsy and takes his face in his hands. “Are you nuts? I came here for you, and I’m not leaving this fucking country without you,” he says. “So if you want to stay back, I’ll stay. I’m not leaving you behind.”

From the inside of the flat, a woman calls out in German: “State your business.”

Richie kicks the door. “The crow flies at fucking midnight, Elsa, open the fucking door.”

The door swings open and Elsa sticks her head out. “We have rules for a reason, Michael.” She clucks her tongue.

“Fuck your rules, Elsa, he’s not going to make it to the ferry point like this.”

“He?” Elsa swings her head around to see Cartsy in the shadows. “Oh. You got him out.”

Richie has one hand fisted in Cartsy’s shirt, the other’s cupping his cheek. “Just for the night, Elsa. We’ll either make it to the ferry or not, but just for the night.”

She sighs. “Get inside. You have until dawn, Michael.”

*

Elsa runs a bath, sets out some clean towels, and then fixes Richie with a significant look before withdrawing to her room.

“Cartsy.” Richie shakes Cartsy’s shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I still think I’m dreaming.” Cartsy lifts his left hand and touches Richie’s face.

“You’re not,” Richie responds. He covers Cartsy’s hand with his own. “You’re not dreaming, Cartsy.”

“It’s been three--” Cartsy exhales. “Three months. It’s hard, hard to remember this is real.”

Richie drops to his knees in front of Cartsy. “How’d you do it, when you were trying to convince them you’re a fucking Jerry pilot?” he asks as he starts unbuttoning Cartsy’s shirt.

“Flew a Messerschmitt once,” Cartsy says. He winces as Richie pushes his shirt off of his shoulders. “Back before my accident. Brought the plane down, no problem, captured the pilot. No one wanted to destroy the plane, I took it for a spin, hid it ‘til someone could decide.”

“Of course you did.” Richie throws the shirt in the corner. It should probably be burned, he thinks. He tries not to look at the way Cartsy’s ribs stick out, or the bruises mottling his skin.

“Someone sold out the coordinates for the landing field here, and lying was the first thing I thought of when they pulled me out of the plane.” Cartsy drapes his arm over Richie’s shoulder as Richie crouches to slip his shoes off of his feet. No laces, Richie notices, and it’s probably for good reason, knowing Cartsy. “Took German in university, and I knew the plane, easy to make up a story. Told them I must have been hurt real bad, couldn’t remember my name, woke up in a Brit hospital like this, then I just... just fucking started talking planes.”

Richie cracks a smile. “You could do that all day.” He taps Cartsy’s hip. “Can you lift up? We’ve got to get this off, too. I can help hold you up, you just need to move.”

Cartsy grunts and tips forward, letting Richie take more of his weight. “Not how I thought this would go,” he mumbles into Richie’s hair. “You getting my clothes off again, I mean.”

“I know.” Richie fumbles with the zip of Cartsy’s trousers, then eases them down over his hips. “One thing at a time.”

The trousers fall down easily over the bend of Cartsy’s knees and Richie shoves them aside. Looking at Cartsy like this fucking eats Richie up. Cartsy’s not supposed to look _fragile_. Cartsy’s never needed Richie’s help, not for anything, and now he can barely hold himself upright.

“You’ve gotta pitch in on this now, Cartsy.” Richie says. “You’re too tall, I can’t…” He nods at the tub. “You need to at least swing your legs in.”

“Fuck off,” Cartsy mutters weakly. He does his best, though, leaning most of his weight on Richie as he shifts to the side. It’s not an easy task, but Cartsy eventually slides into the tub and sighs in relief. Richie’s clothes are soaked through by the time Cartsy’s head lolls back against the side of the tub, and he doesn’t think anything of stripping down.

“You gonna make me do all the work?” he asks, reaching across the tub for the cloth and sliver of soap that Elsa had set out.

Cartsy weakly splashes his hand in the water. “I got in the fucking tub. You can do the rest.”

Richie shakes his head. “I come all the way to Germany for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I have _zero_ working hands, you asshole.” Cartsy lifts up his arms. The right arm that ends below the elbow is nothing new to Richie, but the way his left hand looks, the bones broken and never re-set, makes Richie wince.

“I guess that’s a good enough reason.” Richie leans in and presses a kiss to Cartsy’s temple. “Relax, I’ll do all the hard work.” Cartsy nods and closes his eyes, leaving Richie to work in silence.

This isn’t how Richie imagined their reunion to go. In his mind, this involved far more gunfire and perhaps a car chase or two. Instead, he’s gently washing three months of grime from Cartsy’s battered body, hiding out in a safehouse that they’lll be kicked out of as soon as the sun rises.

When Richie’s washed the last of the dirt from Cartsy’s hair, he shakes him by the shoulder. “You still awake?”

Cartsy cracks one eye open. “No.”

“Let’s get you out of the bath, then.” Richie rests one hand on the heavy beard covering Cartsy’s jaw.

“Whatever you want.” Cartsy leans ever so slightly into Richie’s hand.

“I missed your face,” Richie says. There’s a hitch in his voice, and Richie bites down on his lower lip. The beard is horrific, Richie thinks, and it needs to go eventually, but they’re already short on time.

Cartsy smiles. His false teeth are gone, and on top of that, he’s short a few more teeth than he was before he went off to Germany. Richie still loves him so much that he can’t even find the words for it.

“Still can’t believe you’re here,” Cartsy whispers.

“Well.” Richie pats Cartsy’s shoulder. “I wasn’t going to trust anyone else with this.” He reaches into the tub and pulls the plug, letting the filthy water start to drain away. Richie smooths Cartsy’s wet hair back, then wraps a towel around his shoulders.

Cartsy reaches up and rests his hand on Richie’s arm. “Thank you,” he says. “For finding me.”

Richie leans in and presses a kiss to Cartsy’s forehead. “No one else was bringing you home but me.”

*

Richie gets Cartsy dressed in mismatched clothes; the trousers are too big and the shirt’s too small, but it’s better than the mismatched tatters of his ATA uniform. Richie salvaged Cartsy’s pilots wings and left the rest of the bundle for Elsa to burn.

There’s only one bed in Elsa’s spare room, and Richie doesn’t think anything of it, just lowers Cartsy down onto it. “We’ve got a few hours until we need to leave for the ferry point,” Richie points out as he pulls the blankets up over Cartsy. “Try to get some sleep.”

Cartsy shoves at the blankets. “Get in.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be right here.” Richie pulls the blanket back up around Cartsy’s shoulders. “You take the bed.”

Cartsy weakly sits up and fixes Richie with an unimpressed look. “You want to know what I fucking went through in there? I can share a fucking bed for a few hours. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Richie swallows heavily. “Right.” Richie moves the blankets and very slowly gets in next to Cartsy. “If -- just tell me if --” He exhales, then tries to situate himself on the bed. “If you need --”

Cartsy hits Richie’s shoulder with as much force as he can muster. “I need you to shut up and just be _here_.”

“Right. Right. Fine.” Richie settles onto the bed, carefully curling around Cartsy.

“Thank you. Jesus, Richie.”

Richie rolls his eyes. He feels stupidly fond of Cartsy. “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll watch over.” He rests one hand on Cartsy’s chest and watches it rise and fall for a long time, slowing finally as Cartsy eases his way into sleep.

Richie holds on like he can protect Cartsy, like he can keep him safe, like he can undo the past three months of Cartsy’s life.

Their jobs are shit. This war is shit. Richie’s doing what he can.

*

The sun’s already up when Elsa knocks on the door. “Michael,” she says as she opens the door and looks in. Elsa frowns immediately as soon as she sees them. Cartsy’s snoring softly, his face pressed against Richie’s bare shoulder. His left hand curls around Richie’s hand as much as his twisted fingers will allow it. Richie can’t even bring himself to care what Elsa thinks she sees.

“Michael, I’ve already given you longer than I wanted. You need to go, before anyone comes here.”

Richie scrubs his free hand against his face. “Five minutes, we’ll be gone.” He starts nudging Cartsy with his elbow. “I promise.”

Elsa doesn’t look convinced. “Get gone, Michael, before you bring this whole place down around you. They’re looking for him, you know.”

“Five minutes.” Richie shoves himself out of bed and pushes the door closed, kicking Elsa out. “Rise and shine, Cartsy, we’re getting out of here.”

*

Richie doesn’t need anyone to tell him that they’ve already missed their flight. “If you had to,” Richie asks as he stashes their borrowed motorcycle behind some overgrown bushes, “if I could get us a plane, can you fly it?”

Cartsy limps along after Richie. “How many no-handed pilots do you know?”

“One, now.” Richie wraps an arm around Cartsy’s waist to help him keep his balance. “If you talk me through it, do you think I could do it?”

That makes Cartsy pause. “Gunning for my job, eh?”

“Well,” Richie reasons, “someone’s got to get us out of here.”

Turns out they don’t have to worry about teaching Richie to fly, because when they hobble up to the ferry point, Kopi’s still there waiting for them.

“Weren’t you supposed to be up in the air already?” Richie asks.

Kopi shrugs. “They pulled an RAF boy out of there last night. A little banged up, but he was able to fly. From what I heard, you two were going to need extra time to get here.”

Cartsy’s not paying attention to Kopi; he’s squinting off into the distance, towards the barn that’s serving as a makeshift hangar. Richie tries to see what he’s looking at, but can’t make out the shape in the distance.

“Is there another plane, or are we walking out of Germany?”

Kopi frowns. “There is.” He nods his head at the barn. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Cartsy tugs himself free from Richie’s grasp and limps his way towards the barn. “Is that…?” He turns back and looks at Kopi, who nods.

“What are we talking about?” Richie follows Cartsy, and then he sees it: an enormous German bomber behind the barn, partially covered by a tarp. “Fuck me.”

“Uh-huh.” Cartsy reaches his left arm up and presses his hand against the rudder. “She runs?”

“Good as new,” Kopi says. “I can fly her if you navigate, Cartsy.”

Cartsy presses his face against the cool metal skin of the plane. “Let’s just get her up in the air.”

Richie’s certain they’re going to get shot down the second they enter Allied airspace, but he’s going to keep his mouth shut this time.

*

It turns out that debrief is even more miserable when you show up in a stolen Ju 88 to an airfield that isn’t expecting you.

ATA brass deal with Kopi. Cartsy’s immediately escorted to see the medics.

Richie sits in an empty interrogation room and waits.

*

He’s asleep when Sutter comes for him and shakes him awake. “You’ve had quite the adventure, Michael,” he says as he settles into the chair opposite of Richie.

Richie rubs his eyes and sits up. “That’s one way of looking at it. Where’s Cartsy?”

Sutter ignores the question. “Whose idea was the Ju 88?”

“Kopi had it at the ferry point. Didn’t ask questions, just got in. Where’s Cartsy?”

“Not only did you steal a British plane and lose it in Germany, but you stole a German plane and just hoped you could fly it in unchallenged? You’re very lucky no one shot on sight.”

Richie pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I wasn’t going to let Cartsy sit over there and fucking rot in Nazi prison for any longer. You sure didn’t seem to be moving on it, so I just -- did what was fucking right.”

Sutter scribbles some notes on a pad of paper. “How did you get Anže involved?”

“Kopi’s not a fucking asshole. Leave no man behind.” Richie grips the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white. “Cartsy?”

“Anže could be facing court-martial for his role in this, you should know.”

Richie shoves his chair back and stands up. “Bullshit. He’s a civilian. Can’t fucking court-martial a civilian.”

Sutter frowns and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m just relaying what I’ve been told.”

Richie wraps his hands around the back of the chair, lifts it up, then smacks the legs back against the floor. “Kopi was instrumental in the search and rescue mission. If anyone should be court-martialed, it should be the stupid fuck who sent Cartsy into Germany in an unarmed plane.”

“Flight Captain Carter knew the risks associated with his position when he accepted a transfer to the ATA. Despite his handicap, Carter remained an exceptional pilot, so he was the obvious choice for the Germany assignment.” Sutter puts his pad of paper down and folds his arms over his chest. “We’re very grateful that you helped orchestrate the evacuation of Carter and…” He pauses, checking his notes. “Carter and four other prisoners of war. We’d love to get a better understanding of your experience, as per proper protocol, Michael.”

Richie laughs. “This is bullshit. I’ll find him myself. Already brought him home from fucking Germany, I think I can find him now. We’re done here.”

As Richie twists the doorknob to leave, Sutter calls out: “You’re leaving for Normandy in two days, Michael. Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Fuck off.” Sutter doesn’t try to stop Richie as he storms out the door.

*

Cartsy’s in the last bed in the medical tent. His left hand’s in a cast and he’s sound asleep. The medics cleaned him up better than Richie did back in the safehouse, as he’s clean-shaven for the first time in ages.

He looks so young, Richie thinks. He didn’t deserve any of this, none of them did.

Richie pulls up a chair and sits next to Cartsy’s bed and waits.

*

Richie wakes up to the heavy pressure of Cartsy’s cast resting on his shoulder. “Hey,” Cartsy says as Richie lifts his head up to look at him.

There are so many things Richie wants to say. _I’m so glad you’re alive_ or _I would die for you a thousand times_ or _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , until his voice gives out, because this war is going to kill them both, and Cartsy needs to know.

He doesn’t say any of them, though.

“Good morning,” he says instead. “They’re sending me to fucking Normandy.”

Cartsy goes still; only his fingers twitch against Richie’s neck. “Normandy, huh?” He reaches up with his right arm, scrubs at his face with the bend of his arm. “I’ve heard things about Normandy. Nothing fucking good’s going to come from that.”

Richie tips his head to the side. “Really? You think?” A bitter sarcasm colors his words; he knows as well as anyone else that he’s probably not coming back from Normandy.

“They pissed you came after me?”

Richie sits up and rubs his hands against his face. “I was maybe less nice to Sutter than I should have been, on debrief.”

“But Normandy?” Cartsy shakes his head. He goes quiet for a while, then thumps his cast against the mattress. “Sit up here, Richie.”

“The nurses…?” Richie looks back over his shoulder.

“Fuck it,” Cartsy snaps. “After all this, who fucking cares about the nurses?”

Cartsy’s right. Richie eases himself up onto the bed, then stretches out next to Cartsy. “How are you feeling?” he asks after he’s tucked the blankets back around them.

“Like shit.” Air whistles through the gap in Cartsy’s teeth when he speaks, and Richie smiles. “The hand’s probably not going to heal right and the limp’s going to be worse. Everything else is just … just waiting.”

Richie reaches up to rest his fingertips on Cartsy’s face, gently mapping his features. “Can I ask you something?” Cartsy nods. “Is it true you kept turning down ferry jobs to stay here?”

“Maybe.” Cartsy bites on his lower lip and meets Richie’s eyes. “I might have found reasons not to fly for a while,” he admits. He leans into Richie’s touch. “Might have lied a little about my knee acting up. It was a stupid, shitty idea that I knew was going to backfire eventually, but.” He sighs and opens his eyes, looks up at the ceiling. “There’s a war on, you know? And nothing lasts forever, not these days, so when you were grounded, well...” Cartsy swallows heavily and taps his right arm against Richie’s chest. “I like flying, but getting to stay here with you, that was better than the open sky, Richie. You made me forget all of this. The war, my accident, everything. I could _forget_. I wanted to be able to pretend to have it all for a little while, and I _could_. I could lie to myself and think we could have this outside of this shitty barracks and this shitty war.”

It’s maybe the most words Richie’s ever heard Cartsy string together at once, outside of obscenity-laced tirades about the sad state of affairs of the planes he had to fly, and it breaks Richie’s heart. “Jeff,” Richie says, his voice low. “Jeff, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go to fucking Normandy. I want--”

He doesn’t know how to say what he wants. He isn’t allowed to _have_ what he wants. He’s not so stupid as to think that he and Cartsy would have found each other if not for the war, and now it’s the war that’s going to do them both in.

There’s nothing Richie can do about it now. “Jeff,” he says again, urgently, before he takes Cartsy’s face in his hands and kisses him, slow and careful. He doesn’t have the words for what he wants. This is the best he can do.

*

There’s a new pilot waiting to take Richie to Normandy. He hasn’t even bothered to learn the kid’s name. It doesn’t matter. He’s never going to see the kid again.

The flight is the least of Richie’s concerns, though.

Richie feels his breath catch in his throat when he sees Cartsy standing next to the pilot.

Against doctor’s orders, Cartsy’s hobbled out to the airfield on crutches he can barely hold himself up with. His clothes hang off of him and the dark circles under his eyes look like they’re there to stay.

Richie smiles. “You should be in bed,” he says.

“Had to make sure this kid’s gonna treat you right,” Cartsy says, nodding at the pilot, who’s staring at Cartsy in wide-eyed fear. “Hey, give us a minute, yeah?” The pilot nods and scurries off; Cartsy watches him go, then turns back to Richie. “He’s a good kid. A little green, but he’ll get you where you need to go.”

“I shouldn’t be going at all,” Richie says. He hooks his fingers around one of Cartsy’s crutches, as close as he dares to get in case anyone is watching. “I shouldn’t be going to fucking Normandy.”

“Well.” Cartsy shifts his grip on the crutch so that his arm brushes against Richie’s hand. “Well, you are, and I thought I’d see you off, so be nice.”

Richie looks back over his shoulder; when he doesn’t see anyone else, he leans forward to press his face against Cartsy’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says. “For lots of things.”

Cartsy tips his head down and rests his chin against the top of Richie’s head. “You take care of yourself, you hear? You come back. You come back to me.”

“I know.” Richie can’t promise anything, he can’t lie like that to Cartsy’s face. “I -- you know that’s all I want.”

“I know.” Cartsy presses a soft kiss to Richie’s hair, then nudges him away with his cast. “Don’t make me come after your sorry ass in France.”

Richie steps back and scrubs his hands against his face. “Right. Alright. I’m -- okay. I’m okay.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “This is -- alright.”

He’s not going to fucking cry at the airfield, he’s _not_. Richie looks up at the sky, because he thinks that if he looks at Cartsy for one more second, he’s going to lose it.

Somewhere behind him, he hears the pilot clear his throat. “They’re clearing us for take-off, boss,” he says. “We need to move out.”

Cartsy scowls at the pilot over Richie’s shoulder. “Fuck off, kid. I don’t care who cleared you. You take off when I say so.”

Even though Cartsy’s not in uniform, the pilot knows he’s outranked. “Yes, sir.” He doesn’t retreat, though, and just looms behind Richie, whose hand closes around something sharp in his pocket.

He fishes the object out of his pocket and frowns: it’s Cartsy’s pilot’s wings, the ones that Richie saved back in Germany. “Oh,” he says, turning the pin over in his hands, then extending it out to Cartsy. “These are yours.”

Cartsy reaches out to brush his fingers across the battered metal. He stares at them for a long moment then shakes his head. “Keep them. I’m -- I’m not flying again, I think we both know it.” He nudges at Richie’s fingers, pushing them shut around the pin. “I’d pin them on you, but…” Cartsy wiggles the tips of his fingers outside of the cast. “Keep them. Call it a little something to remember me by.”

Richie swallows heavily. “Like I could ever forget?” He opens his jacket, then fumbles with the latch of the pin so he can affix it to his sweater, right over his heart. “Good?”

“Congratulations, you’re a pilot now.” Cartsy presses his fingertips to Richie’s chest, just above the wings.

Richie covers Cartsy’s hand, cast and all, with his own, under his jacket. “If you get back to Maidenhead, there’s a letter on the board for you. You should … you should either get it back, or have someone destroy it.”

Cartsy’s mouth turns up in a smile. “Confessing all your secrets?”

Richie’s cheeks color and he looks down at his feet. “Something like that.”

“Well.” Cartsy nudges at Richie’s chest. “I’ll get it back. Someone should hold your secrets. Now get gone, Michael. Get out there and fight a war for me.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Richie looks at Cartsy for a long moment. There’s something so sad in Cartsy’s eyes despite the smile tugging at his lips. Richie sighs and looks back over his shoulder at the pilot, who is very pointedly looking away.

“Fuck it,” Richie says.

He’s going to die in Normandy, he’s sure of it. Cartsy’s going to get pushed out of the ATA, he’ll never fly again in this war. So, fuck it.

He raises up on his toes and kisses Cartsy, soft and slow. This is what he wants to remember, this and more: the press of Cartsy’s lips against his, the warmth of Cartsy’s body, the words Cartsy whispered to Richie in the dead of night.

Behind them, the pilot clears his throat again, and Richie breaks away. “Cartsy -- _Jeff_.” He lays his hand on Cartsy’s chest, right over his heart. “Take care of yourself.” His voice catches and he looks down, because meeting Cartsy’s eyes is too much right now.

“Until we meet again, eh?” Cartsy digs the tips of his crutches into the ground and takes a few steps back, putting distance between them.

“Yeah, Cartsy.” Richie smiles. It’s all he can do, it’s all he has left. “Until we meet again.”

*

The trip to Normandy is fucked from the start, just like they all thought.

In the end, it’s not even a German plane that brings Richie down; it’s a shitty engine that sputters out far too early.

“Hey, boss,” the pilot shouts over the roar of the remaining engine. “You might wanna-- I mean, I don’t think bracing is gonna do jack shit, but-- this, uh. Boss?”

The remaining engine whines as the pilot tries to pull them out of their dive.

“We don’t got no eject seats,” he shouts. “So whatever it is you wanna do before we hit, you oughta do it now.”

“Oh. Huh.” Richie coughs; the cockpit’s starting to fill with smoke. He should maybe have some calming words for the pilot, but the kid’s got enough to worry about with the way the plane’s downward spiral is getting faster.

Richie doesn’t know much about flying, but he knows he should almost never be able to see the ground rushing towards him.

He leans forward, head between his knees and fumbles in his pocket for a tattered, well-worn scrap of paper. _Find your sky_ , the paper says.

As the plane spins madly towards the earth, Richie’s fingers run over blurry ink and he thinks of Cartsy.

Just Cartsy, and nothing else.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this bears a certain resemblance to Code Name Verity, you’re correct; think of this as an homage or somewhat of a love letter to Elizabeth Wein’s fantastic book.
> 
> The ATA routinely brought on pilots who, for various reasons, were considered unfit for active service in the military. There was at least one known one-armed pilot who served in the ATA: Stewart Keith-Jopp had lost both an arm and an eye during WWI, but returned to duty flying aircraft for the ATA during WWII.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://othersideofthis.tumblr.com/) to yell about hockey boys.


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